Ambitions
by Soledad
Summary: Dr. Kavanagh's time at SGC before Atlantis. Prequel to Choices.
1. Chapter 1

**AMBITIONS**

**by** **Soledad**

**Title:** Ambitions

**Author:** Soledad

**Disclaimer:** The settings and the canon characters belong to Showtime, Gekko and other PTB. Only a few original characters and the plot belong to me.

**Rating:** General, for now.

**Genre:** Action-adventure, Drama.

**Summary:** This is a prequel to my story "Choices" and basically shows Kavanagh's time at SGC.

**Timeframe:** from the 6th Season SG1 episode "Redemption" to the 7th Season SG1 episode "Lost City", roughly.

**Archiving:** my own website, the Otherworlds Library Yahoo Group and the Hidden Realms LJ community. Everyone else, please, ask first. I prefer to know where my stuff goes.

* * *

**PART 01**

Like many other people, Dr. Calvin Thomas Kavanagh had once believed in love at first sight. It had been like that with his wife – well, _ex-wife_ now – whom he'd married at a much too young age, without ample consideration of the possible consequences. He'd never known, however, that there also was such thing as _hate_ at first sight, and that it could be just as intense and logic-defying.

Not until he met Rodney McKay, that is.

Granted, their first encounter didn't happen under ideal circumstances. It happened in the early 2002, when Calvin was defending his second thesis at CalTech about fluid mechanics and transport processes by complex and multiphasic fluids. By that time, he'd worked for CalTech for almost seven years, after having started his studies at the tender age of sixteen and graduated at the age of twenty.

He'd chosen a topic for his thesis that had been thoroughly researched by the John F. Brady Group of Stokesian Dynamics, and being a member of said group himself, his fellow alumni had all come to watch his performance, even the ones like Ganesh, Asimina or Sanjah, who'd defended their own thesis before him. He didn't really mind attracting quite the audience. He was fairly certain of his abilities (not to mention the godawful amount of research he'd done for this project), and attention was always a good thing in the scientific community. His theories were always soundly based on well-researched fact, so he didn't have to fear embarrassment.

Of course, he couldn't have taken into consideration the unexpected appearance of one Rodney McKay, an astrophysicist as well known for his brilliance as for his insufferable arrogance. Why McKay chose to come in and witness his performance in the first place, Calvin had no idea. Chemical Engineering wasn't even the Canadian's field of expertise, although, he dabbled in it sometimes, like in just about everything that caught his interest.

Which, of course, didn't keep McKay from questioning Calvin's every single sentence. After half an hour, they were practically shouting at each other, to the tolerant amusement of Professors Brady and Brennen who were leading the committee, and the pitying looks Ileana and Alejandra were sending him made clear that they didn't think their fellow grad student would ever achieve his second PhD.

To tell the truth, Calvin was getting the same impression.

So he was understandably surprised when he not only passed with flying colours but even got additional appreciation "for originality and devoted defence" of his thesis. Life was full of surprises.

Margie, the head of the support staff, threw an impromptu party in honour of his newly achieved second doctorate, inviting the recent post-docs as well as all the professors of the faculty. Given the international mix that was their research group, the food was… exotic, to say the least, but aplenty, from Indian through Mexican to Chinese, and Calvin began to relax and enjoy himself, when he was approached – well, yelled at – by McKay.

"You! Kavanagh!" the Canadian scientist – and all-out pain in the ass – was waving with his fork. "Do you have a moment?"

Calvin suppressed an irritated sigh. He hated it when people didn't address him properly – having two PhDs at the age of twenty-seven was no small feat, and he'd worked very hard to get them. Besides, after his ordeal McKay was the last person he wanted to get sociable with.

"Not really," he said, not even trying to be polite, "but if you keep it short…"

"I can do that," McKay promised, taking a huge bit of his soddy, dropping taco. Calvin took a careful step back. He didn't want chili sauce on his only good suit. "Can you tell me what exactly are you doing in that Stokesian Dynamics group?"

"Well, it's not so as if our research would be confidential or whatnot," Calvin replied, irritated that the Canadian couldn't look it up himself. It was all on the Internet, after all. "Our group's research interests are in fluid mechanics and transport processes, with a special interest in problems at the interface between continuum mechanics and statistical mechanics(1)."

"No, no," McKay interrupted. "I mean what _you_ are doing? Personally."

"Fundamental studies of complex fluids," Calvin shrugged. "I specifically study liquid crystals. It's mostly lab work."

"Hmmm," McKay pulled a face, which didn't hinder him in eating his taco at the same time. "That's a criminal waste of a true researcher's abilities."

"It's an interesting challenge," Calvin corrected, a little angrily. "_And_ it feeds me and my family. I'm lucky that I got this job after graduation. It keeps me in touch with the latest research."

"Nonsense," McKay waved impatiently, and Calvin neatly sidestepped the flying drops of chili sauce. "The real work is done elsewhere. There are project where you could be put to much better use."

"Well, for some reason the government hasn't contacted me yet to go to Area 51 and help them to solve the mystery of the Roswell UFO's hyperdrive," Calvin replied with biting irony.

"Isn't that a shame?" McKay said blandly, finishing his taco and looking around absently for a napkin to clean his greasy fingers. "Well, perhaps they'll realize their mistake yet."

* * *

As soon as the party was over, Calvin drove to the nursery school to collect Tommy, who was finally showing some very slow progress due to the new therapy, although, as the lady therapist said regretfully, he would need a better one to make a considerable difference. Calvin knew that, of course, but a special school would have cost more money than he could afford at the moment. The four-year-old seemed content enough, looking at him with enormous, cornflower-blue eyes. With his curly blond hair, the kid was like those little angels in renaissance paintings. Nobody would guess at first sight that something was not right with him.

They rushed to Liam's school then, where Calvin was treated with another impromptu speech by Mrs Eckles, Liam's teacher, about how the kid would really need to go to a school for specifically gifted children. Well, that was nothing new, either. Unfortunately, schools for gifted children cost a lot of money, too, which he didn't have, either. Perhaps when Dion has graduated… although it might be too late by then. Liam's eager interest and hunger for knowledge could be gone, due to the lack of proper stimulation. But that was not something he could change right now.

Returning to his sister's place, where he and the boys had been living since the divorce, Calvin gave a short summary of the big event, leaving out the unpleasant details that they wouldn't have understood anyway. Academic bitching was a phenomenon completely baffling for outsiders. Thus everyone was delighted by the good news, they ate together, then watched together Tommy's favourite cartoon, and the kids were put to bed. Aside from the never-ending financial concerns, Calvin was having a good time, and soon he completely forgot about his weird encounter with McKay at the party.

* * *

Until a few weeks later, when a pretty blonde woman in her early thirties entered his lab that was situated near Professor Brady's office at Spalding.

"Dr. Samantha Carter," she introduced herself. "I'm a theoretical astrophysicist."

"Then you must have taken the wrong turn," Calvin said. "This is Chemical Engineering, and we are currently researching the development and solution of macroscopic equations to describe transport in heterogeneous media."

"Such as an oil reservoir, a packed bed reactor, or the flow of a suspension?" she asked, and at his surprised look, she added with a smile that was surprisingly charming. "I do have a degree in Engineering as well, although my field is a different one. As for taking the wrong turn… you _are_ Dr. Kavanagh, aren't you?"

"What if I am?" he asked, admittedly a little unfriendly, because he wanted to finish the series of experiments in time, for a change.

She gave him a wide, ear-to-ear grin, full of understanding, from one scientist to another. "I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I was sent here to make you an offer. Would you like to work for the government?"

All of a sudden, the short conversation with McKay at the party started to make sense.

"To help them figure out how the hyperdrive of the Roswell UFO works?" he asked sarcastically.

She rolled her eyes and groaned. "I swear, one day I'm going shoot McKay. In fact, I'll shoot him the next time he dares to set foot in my lab. Surely, generations of scientist are going to worship me for _that_," then she became very serious. "No, doctor, this is a lot bigger than the Roswell UFO. You'll have to move to another location, more or less permanently, if you accept. _And_ you'll have to sign an oath of confidentiality."

He shook his head. "I can't leave Pasadena. I'm a single parent with two small children who need me, and…"

She interrupted him. "We are aware of your situation, Dr. Kavanagh. We'll provide your family with proper accommodations, near your workplace, and we'll help your sister and his husband to find acceptable jobs. It's not as if they'd have much to leave behind."

That was painfully true. Patrick had been unemployed for years, despite being a good construction worker, and Siobhan's shitty job was far from being secure, too. It was a bit unsettling, though how much this woman, whom he was seeing for the first time in his life, knew about him.

"I cannot," he said. "My children need special education, and I've just found a nursery school for the younger one…"

"…which you won't be able to pay for much longer," she said. "You barely manage on your salary as it is. There are schools for your sons within reach where you will be working. And the job I'm offering you would mean a _considerably_ bigger paycheck as well as a challenge you'd hardly find anywhere else."

All of a sudden, Calvin heard the inner alarm sirens howling in his head. There was only one way how she could know this much about his situation.

"You're from the military, aren't you?" he asked.

To her credit, she didn't deny it.

"I'm also the leader of several scientific projects on which we want you to work," she said.

Calvin frowned. "Military research, huh?" It made sense. He had a PhD in both mechanical _and_ chemical engineering. "Do you want me to build you the new generation of the H bomb or what? Because that's not something I'm willing to do. I happen to have a problem with weapons of mass destruction, national security notwithstanding."

Dr. Carter nodded, showing no sign of surprise.

"We are aware of that fact," she said. "My… superiors have been studying your psychological profile to find the post where you could be the most useful – and that's _not_ the labs where the bombs are being built."

"You've got a psych profile of everyone here at CalTech?" he asked with a scowl.

She shook her head, grinning. "Nah. Only of the most promising ones."

That knocked the wind off his sail. He'd always been very proud of his work, and knowing that it had caught someone's eyes in the Pentagon felt… well, nice. Reassuring, even. The military didn't waste its attention on dilettantes.

"And where would I be living, assuming that I accept the offer?" he asked, somewhat mollified.

"Colorado Springs," she replied. "We're looking for new researchers for the Air Force Space Command. You'd be working at the Cheyenne Mountain Operations Center."

Calvin gulped, half from surprise, half from a slight anxiety. "You mean _inside_ Cheyenne Mountain?"

She nodded. "Yep, two thousand feet underground. Would that be a problem for you?"

"No," he replied dutifully, although he was certain she knew he wasn't claustrophobic. "But would I need to live at the base, too? Because _that_ would be a problem."

"Of course not," she said. "All science staff and most of the officers have houses or apartments assigned to them, unless they _want_ to stay at the base all the time."

"I see," he said, still a little suspicious. "What sort of research _are_ we talking about?"

"Deep space telemetry," Carter answered blandly, and Calvin knew she was lying. But he also knew she wouldn't give him any other answer, unless he accepted."

"That's not exactly my field," he reminded her mildly.

"I know," Carter grinned. "We need you for developing better propulsion systems for the satellites and to provide new sorts of fuel, if it's possible."

He knew she still wasn't telling him the truth – well, not the _entire_ truth anyway – but his curiosity was piqued already.

"This is something really big, isn't it?" he asked slowly.

Carter nodded, with a big, happy grin practically splitting her pretty face. "The biggest thing you can probably imagine… nah, it's actually a lot bigger than _anything_ you could imagine, even in your wildest dreams. Besides, it pays extremely well."

"_How_ well?" he asked.

She named a sum that made him dizzy. He wouldn't be able to make that much money in two lifetimes at CalTech, even if he had the hope to take over a faculty chair by the age of thirty. Which was _not_ a likely thing to happen.

"All right," he said. "Where's the catch?"

"Should there be one?" Carter asked.

"Definitely," he said. "This sounds too good to come without any strings attached."

"You are right, of course," Carter admitted. "The catch is, you'll never be allowed to speak about your work, to anyone outside the base. If you write another thesis, which I actually expect from a man as smart as you are, you won't be able to publish it for decades… if ever. No one but your co-workers will probably read it, and even though they are the best and the brightest this planet can offer, it's not a very big audience."

The peculiar phrasing caught his attention.

"This _planet_, huh?" he said. "So this isn't another joint effort between the US military and Canada alone, is it?"

"You're very observant. I like that in a fellow scientist," she said approvingly. "No, this is not a purely North-American project. Event though we do have the ultimate control, dozens of the best scientists from all around the world work for us."

"And you just happened to pick me, a practically unknown young researcher, with the ink still wet on my second PhD?" he asked sarcastically.

"We've been following your career for a few years by now," she replied calmly. "Your first thesis caught a lot of attention in certain scientific circles, but we wanted to know what else you are capable of. So we pulled a few strings to keep you at CalTech – you didn't really believe that Professor Brady would have invited you into the Stokesian Dynamics group without some… encouragement? And saw that you got really challenging tasks assigned to you?"

"You've been manipulating me," Calvin realized numbly. Here he'd been thinking that all his achievements had been made due to his talent and his hard work, while he had to thank his post to the intervention of the military… It was a bitter pill to swallow."

"We've been _testing_ you," she corrected. "We can't invite someone in just because they look promising. The work we do is too important for such mistakes. We have been testing several dozen other aspiring young scientists in different countries at the same time. Only four of them showed the sort of talent and the working ability we need. You are one of those four."

Well, that was actually flattering. He _knew_ he was good, but other people tended to overlook that fact, just because he lacked certain social skills and didn't have the time – or the nerve – to hang out with his colleagues. It was kinda hard with two small children who needed their father. He knew he could rise to any challenge science made him face. However, the magnitude of the offer was somewhat frightening.

"I can't really say no, can I?" he asked carefully.

Carter shrugged. "Of course you can, don't be ridiculous," she said. "We don't _draft_ civilians to work for us. Sure, you won't become famous, although your work will be possibly more important than that of some Nobel Prize winner. But you're offered an opportunity other people can't even dream about, not to mention a generous paycheck. And don't forget that we have access to educational facilities you'd never be able to afford otherwise."

She was trying to lure him through his children. It was blatant blackmail… and it was working. How could he refuse the offer when it gave him the chance to get better therapy and a steady rehab for Tommy, and better education for Liam? And the money… if they really paid him that much, Siobhan would not need to waste her time in the fucking K-Mart, standing behind the counter and getting shit from rude customers. She could stay home with the boys as she'd always wanted, give them all the love and attention they needed and that she was so willing to give. And Dion could finish college without delivering pizza all night to pay his student fees.

Was a published thesis, were a few articles in some geek magazine worth giving up all those chances? Could he afford to say no and condemn his siblings to struggle for a living for the rest of their lives?

"I'll… have to discuss this with my sister," he finally said. "She'd be the one to put up with all the changes in the first place."

"Of course," Carter handed him a business card. "Call me when you've come to a decision. But I'll have to ask you to make it within the week. We need to start some new projects in a month's time, and we need to have all future co-workers firmly settled by then.

TBC

* * *

**Notes:**

(1) Last sentence quoted directly from the CalTech website. I don't even pretend to understand what it means, but McKay does, and that's enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**AMBITIONS**

**by** **Soledad**

**Author's notes:**

As usual, I have "cast" my original characters. Siobhan is "played" by Kari Matchett, her husband, Patrick, by a younger Colm Meaney and Dion Kavanagh by Robert Leeshock (better known as Liam Kincaid from Earth: Final Conflict).

* * *

**PART 02**

Calvin was barely able to do any more work on that afternoon. The mysterious offer occupied his mind so much that he was unable to focus. After an hour of useless struggle, he decided to call it a day and restart work in the next morning, and drove home. Siobhan had the early shift this week; she would have collected the boys and got them home already.

_Home_, that was a small house in South Pasadena, too small for four adults and two small children, actually, and it didn't even belong to them. But they simply couldn't afford anything better at the time. At least it stood in a surprisingly quiet little lane where mostly old two-story houses stood in two rows, most of them in dire need of some redecoration.

Only the landlord would never waste any money on them, not as long as he could hope to sell them to some big real estate agency one day that wanted to erase them all and build a parking lot or a big hotel in their place. This was a fear they had learned to live with during the last five years: that one day they would be told to leave because the house was needed – or already sold. So far, they could avoid that fate by paying the steadily rising house rents with clenched teeth. But Calvin knew that one day even that wouldn't be enough.

Until then, however, they tried to make the best of their shared home. They used the kitchen and the living room on the ground floor together – although it was mostly Siobhan who did the actual cooking. She and Patrick had their bedroom next to the living room, and Dion had his on the opposite side, although it was barely big enough for him to turn around. Calvin and the boys had their rooms upstairs: a moderate-sized nursery, an even smaller study for him, and a large, empty chamber that they couldn't use because the roof was leaking. Patrick had tried to fix it several times but it never seemed to work.

At least it was a nice neighbourhood, with pleasant surroundings and friendly neighbours. The boys could play in the garden – all right, on the grassy patch with the one sickly tree that counted as a garden – and Patrick even had a small workshop in the empty room upstairs, where he could work on the broken pieces of furniture their neighbours asked him to repair. Patrick was a nice guy and a good carpenter; it was a shame that he couldn't find any proper work.

Calvin parked his geriatric Chevy in front of the house, thanking the spirits of Gerald Ford and all related saints for having gotten home without the four-wheeled antiquity falling to pieces under him, shut the door with practiced care (unless he wanted it to remain in his hand) and walked into the garden. It was empty and peaceful, as usually at that time of the day, when Siobhan was doing the housework, Patrick buried in his workshop and the boys playing in their room.

Only Dion was out, mowing the lawn with the rusty machine that was spitting oily smoke at every turn; a loan from old Mr. Kimble from the right side. He was a tall, handsome young man – several inches taller than Calvin, who wasn't a dwarf himself, and _a lot_ better-looking – yet he seemed completely happy to live with his older siblings and their respective families.

Calvin was grateful for his presence. Dion was working towards his degree as a physical therapist – a choice that had been probably influenced by Tommy's condition – and had both the patience and the skills to work with the boys. This way, Liam and Tommy had an ersatz mother and two ersatz fathers, and Calvin felt less guilty for working all the time and not spending nearly enough of it with his children.

He tried to be a good father, not such a cold-hearted, self-righteous bastard as his old man had been. But the sad truth was, _someone_ had to pay the bills, and that meant that as the one with the most secure and regular income, he had to add long hours of overtime work to his daily schedule, in order to somehow bring their patchwork family through till the next paycheck.

He had the feeling that _this_ part wouldn't change much, even if he accepted Carter's offer. But it would give them a level of financial safety they hadn't known before.

The boys had spotted the Chevy through their window and were now running down to greet him. Tommy with the happy abundance of a four-year-old, beyond which level he'd likely never develop, at least not mentally, and Liam, who still hadn't overcome the deep shock of his mother running away with him three years ago, with that same hidden fear of loss behind his eyes. Calvin knew that – despite all reassuring and all the therapy sessions – Liam was still afraid that one day his father simply wouldn't return.

Truth be told, he never blamed Bethany for panicking. Hell, he'd panicked himself, when he learned that Tommy wasn't simply a late starter. For a parent, learning that they had a child affected by the Fragile X-syndrome was a very hard thing. To accept that Tommy would never be able to learn normally, that they could expect various problems, from attention deficit to anxiety or hyperactivity disorders, and that there was no cure for this condition.

It was hard, yes, it was a tragedy, and had Bethany broken down spectacularly, he'd have understood. But she did something else. She'd snapped Liam – her _normal_ child, as she'd put it – and ran away with the then three-year-old. She wanted nothing to do with Tommy, absolutely nothing. And when the DNA blood test proved that Calvin was a Fragile X carrier, she blamed him for Tommy's condition – although the doctors _had_ said that it was impossible for a father to pass the gene to a son – and all she wanted was a divorce.

Calvin gave her a divorce, but he fought with tooth and nail to get his other son back. Fortunately for him, Bethany had been without a job and without proper accommodation at that time, while he could provide both, plus a stable family background, thanks to Siobhan and Patrick. It had still been a long and ugly fight, but at the end, he had won and could take Liam home. However, the damage to the boy's psyche had already been done, and the long-term consequences were still showing, more than three years later.

Calvin lifted Tommy, who was squealing in delight, onto his shoulders and gathered Liam in his arms to carry them back to the house. Tommy was big and strong for his age, at least physically, but Liam still barely weighed a thing, which had been worrying Calvin for a long time. The boy had simply no appetite and only ate to do the grown-ups a favour. Perhaps a change of scenery would be a good thing for him.

Siobhan and Patrick were sitting in the kitchen. She was small and almost painfully thin, her dark blonde hair in a tight knot on the nape of her neck – a hairdo that, together with her pointy nose, made her look older than her thirty-two years. Her husband, and Irishman of thirty-eight, had a broad, pleasantly open face, with golden brown curls clinging to his forehead. His manners were pleasant and gentle, too; he seemed as deep-rooted and unshakable as a rock, but he had a heart of butter.

Calvin suspected that his gentleness and solidity had been what had attracted Siobhan in the first place, made her run away with Patrick at the age of seventeen, fleeing a home that had been too cold to even be called one, and marrying the man as soon as she'd come of age.

It was a crying shame that they couldn't have children of their own. But when the horrible truth about Tommy came out and Bethany ran away with Liam in panic, unable to face the challenge of raising a mentally disabled child, Siobhan had stepped into the vacancy and taken over the duties of the mother as if it had been the most natural thing of the world. For her, it perhaps was. And Calvin couldn't be grateful enough for her and Patrick providing the boys with a loving family, without which he would probably have lost Tommy to official child care and never gotten Liam back.

He shook his head, catching himself thinking in circles. That was always a sign of weariness and distraction, and right now he couldn't allow getting distracted. There was an important decision to make, and obsessing about his ruined marriage was counterproductive. What was done was done; he needed to think of their future now.

Greeting his family with a smile few other people ever saw on his face, he recognized with a wave of concern the defeated look upon Siobhan's face. His sister was a fighter, she didn't give up easily – this was _not_ a good sign.

"What happened?" he asked, putting Tommy down and letting him run up to the nursery but keeping Liam, who needed a lot more reassurance, in his arms.

"I've lost my job," Siobhan told him laconically. "The manager said that I was too slow and too unfriendly to the customers. They hired a sixteen-year-old girl from Puerto Rico in my stead."

"Can they do that?"

"Sure. I only had a temporary contract; it's run out last week. It's well within their rights not to renew it – and they wouldn't."

"Shit!" On the one hand, Calvin was glad that she wouldn't have to endure those long, undignifying hours behind the counter any longer. Customers could be incredibly rude to the unlucky person who had to smile at them and jump at their every whim nevertheless. On the other hand, this turn of events would practically force him to accept Carter's offer. For a moment, he was seriously wondering whether the military had their hand in Siobhan's bad luck, but then he rejected the idea as too paranoid, even for him.

"Well," he said after some thought, "maybe we can ask old Mr. Kimble if the offer to work in his daughter's store is still open."

He didn't want to break the news to her without any preparation. He needed to see how badly Siobhan wanted to remain in her home, in the environment she had grown used to.

"Afraid that won't be an issue anymore," Patrick said, his slight Irish brogue thickening as always when under stress. "Old Mr. Kimble is gone."

"Gone as dead or gone as finally moved to his daughter's place?" Calvin asked. He hoped for the latter. Mr. Kimble was a decent old man who even had the patience to spend some time with the boys, as if he were their Grandpa. Few old men would do that for complete strangers.

"He finally moved," Patrick replied. "Not without some… outside inspiration, though."

"Let me guess," Calvin said grimly. "Our lovely landlord finally managed to sell the house above our heads."

"All his houses, actually," Patrick said. "The entire side of the street is sold, and the inhabitants are _encouraged_ to move out as soon as they can. The Pringles," that was a young couple with a daughter and two dogs on the left side, "are packing already. They'll probably move in with Molly's mother again."

"Poor things," Calvin murmured, knowing all too well how relieved the Pringles had been to finally be free of Molly's bossy mother. "That's hard, that's really hard. They've hardly been on their own for a year or so."

"Yeah, but what else could they do?" Siobhan asked. "There aren't any empty houses in the neighbourhood that they could pay the rent of. Or we, for that matter. They are all too expensive. Unless we want to barricade ourselves in the house, like the crazy lady with the sixteen cats down the street, we'll have to move out, too."

"They say a big real estate company has bought half the street and they're moving on to buy the other half of it as well," Patrick added gloomily. "Whatever they want to do it, we're history here. And I've no idea what we're gonna do. Where we're gonna go."

Calvin sighed. Fate had taken the decision out of his hand, and while the coincidence might be a bit… too convenient, he'd always known this day would come. Whether he really trusted Carter's promises or not, there was only one way to save their family from becoming homeless.

"I might have a solution," he said, accepting the inevitable. "What would you think about moving to Colorado Springs?"

"Never been to the place," Patrick shrugged. "What's there?"

"The Cheyenne Mountain Operations Center, among other things," Calvin replied, somewhat sourly. "I got an offer to work for the government – for a lot more money and considerable benefits, or so they say. I don't know all the details, only that it's some high-level research work. They gave me a week to make the decision – but it seems I'll be calling them a lot earlier, doesn't it?"

Siobhan and Patrick exchanged worried looks. They both knew how much he liked working at CalTech and how he thought about weapons."

"I remember having heard of _that_ place," Patrick said. "Isn't that the command of NORAD or some other military organization?"

"It is," Calvin admitted, "but I'd be working for the Air Force Space Command." He trailed off, only beginning to realize what that would actually mean, and he found hard to breathe from sheer amazement. "It's not exactly the NASA, but the next best thing."

"But you'd still work for the military," Siobhan remarked quietly. "Are you willing to do that?"

"They seem very eager to have me, for some reason," Calvin replied, "and Dr. Carter, the lady who contacted me, said that I'll have to work on new propulsion systems and develop new sorts of fuel for the satellite carriers. No weapons research."

"_Everything_ may turn into weapons research when the military is financing it," Siobhan warned.

"I know," Calvin sighed, "but what other choice do I have? We're standing on the verge of ruin once again, and I can't stay at CalTech forever. Sooner or later, they'll want new faces, younger minds. If I take this job, we get a house in Colorado Springs, only as a loan, granted, but that's still better than what we have now. Patrick may find some work, and I'll earn enough money so that you can stay home with the kids, unless you really want to work."

"And you'll sell your soul to the devil," Siobhan added sadly.

"Father would say that I've already done that when I divorced Bethany," Calvin replied dryly, "but I hope it's not so. This Dr. Carter seems to be a dedicated scientist, and she promised me some challenging and very important work."

"Which could be literally anything," Patrick pointed out.

"Yes, but I doubt that they'd have followed my scientific career since graduation because they wanted me to build a bomb," Calvin said. "Every idiot can build a bomb, with the right manual. But they wanted a really good scientist for this job. She said they have chosen me and three others of several dozen candidates, after years of observation."

"I don't even pretend to understand anything about your work," Patrick said, "but I know that you're really smart. So, if thy want you this much, it must be a big thing. A very big one."

"True scientific breakthrough always is." Calvin nodded. "From the way Dr. Carter was speaking, I think they're close to it… but not close enough. So they're bringing in fresh minds to propel things forward."

"And are baying to pay for it, apparently," Siobhan said. "I still don't like it, Calvin. And I like it even less that you have no other choice but accept."

"To be honest," Calvin hesitated, "I'm actually very curious. And doing research without the fear that some committee will take away our financial means any given time would be nice, for a change."

"In this, we can't help you," Patrick said soberly. "But don't make this choice just because we're in a bit of financial trouble. We've been there before, and we've always managed, somehow."

"I know," Calvin smiled. "But we're not getting younger, and both you and the children need safety. And Dion needs to focus on his last year at college; he needs to learn and to write his thesis. I'm capable of provide the means for all this – and I really don't mind doing so."

"Will there ever be a way out of this contract for you?" Siobhan asked quietly.

Calvin shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

"And you're still accepting?"

"I'm interested to do more challenging work. Besides, we don't have any other choice."

"Yes, we do! We could…"

"No, sis, we don't, and you know that. But that's okay, really. I'll hopefully be doing work that I'll enjoy, and we'll all have a good life. We could do worse."

"Are you sure, Calvin? Are you really, really sure?"

"I am, sis."

"Then do as you think is best for us all. And thank you." She stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

* * *

Later in the afternoon, Calvin called Dr. Samantha Carter and told her that he'll take the offer.

"However," he said, "I want to see a written contract and enough time to read all the small print on the bottom of the page. I'm not getting into this with my eyes shut."

"We haven't expected you to do so," she replied, her amusement apparent. "General Hammond, the commander of the base, has scheduled a meeting for all future co-workers for next Friday. We'll fax your flight ticket to Dr. Brady's office at CalTech and someone will fetch you from Colorado Springs Airport."

"I assume Professor Brady knows about this already?" Calvin asked.

"He was informed that we want to make you this offer, yes," Carter replied. "And I'll inform him that you've accepted before the flight ticket arrives, of course."

"I'm still not comfortable with all this secrecy," Calvin told her bluntly.

"No, I imagine you're not," she answered, completely unfazed. "But once you're here, you'll understand why it was necessary. Others did, too. Until next week, then."

"You'll be there, in the debriefing?" Calvin asked.

"Of course I will," she laughed. "The general needs someone who actually understands what you guys are talking about half the time. Have nice day, Dr. Kavanagh."

With that, she hung up. Calvin put down his cell phone and looked at his sister.

"Well, there's no way back anymore."

"No," she agreed. "I hope you'll never have a reason to regret this."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**AMBITIONS**

**by** **Soledad**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part 1.

You'll find some familiar names in this chapter – and it's not a coincidence:o)

The technobabble has been borrowed from the GateWorld website. I don't even pretend to understand it.

* * *

**PART 03**

The following Thursday found Calvin at Colorado Springs Airport, staring out of the large window that occupied the entire wall of the lounge at the night skies of the city. He suspected that the military had had a conscious choice by booking him an evening flight, so that he'd arrive at nighttime. Either they wanted to intimidate him – which wouldn't work by someone whose father's favourite punishment had been to shut him into the walk-in closet under the stairs – or they didn't want him to find the way to the base alone, should the deal _not_ come together, after all.

There were several other people waiting in the lounge, their moods varying between anxious (a small Japanese woman wearing unproportionally large, round glasses), excited (a somewhat pudgy-faced, sandy-haired man in his mid-thirties) an impatient (a rather plain woman of about thirty, with shoulder-length dark blonde hair, whose entire demeanour practically screamed "scientist"). Ruling out the group of boy scouts with their balding leader and the family with the teenaged kids practicing their skateboard skills in front of the window, Calvin would imagine the three to be the other newbies. The general had scheduled a meeting for _all_ of them for tomorrow; it would be only logical to have them arrive at the same time. One could think of the military what one wanted, but they certainly were _one_ thing – efficient.

The next flight was announced, and the boy scouts grabbed their backpacks and left the lounge, followed by the teenaged kids and their somewhat… weary parents. Barely were they gone, a dark-skinned man in a Marine uniform entered the room, with a list in his hand.

"Dr. Felger?" he asked, and the pudgy-faced man raised a hand excitedly. Calvin briefly considered the possibility that the man might be _Jay Felger_ – something of a legend among young scientists, both for his brilliance and eccentricity. But it didn't seem very likely that this rabbit-like creature would actually have four post-graduate degrees and half a dozen highly innovative theories in applied mathematics.

The Marine ticked a name on his list and looked up again. "Dr. Kavanagh?"

"That would be me," Calvin said, ignoring the disapproving look the soldier gave his ponytail with practiced ease. People tended to have funny reactions to his preferred hairdo, but he couldn't care less. They'll get used to it. Or find something else to get upset about.

The Marine ticked off his name and looked at the Japanese woman. "Dr. Kusanagi, I presume?"

One didn't have to be a rocket scientist – well, some of the people present probably _were_, but that wasn't the point – to guess which one she would be. She nodded nevertheless, giving the soldier with the forbidding facial expression a nervous smile.

"And Dr. Simpson," the Marine pocketed his list, not even asking the blonde woman's name. It wasn't so as she could have been anyone else. "Welcome to Colorado Springs, ladies, sirs. I'm Gunnery Sergeant Michael Bates. General Hammond sent me to take you to Cheyenne Mountain. If you'd follow me…"

"Just a moment, Sergeant," the blonde woman, Simpson, said in a manner that revealed that she was used to deal with soldiers. An Army brat perhaps? Or had she worked for the military before? Calvin wondered what her field might be. "We need to get our luggage first."

Bates shot her an unbelieving look. "You mean you don't have it yet?"

"We were told to wait here until someone came to fetch us," Simpson replied. "The instructions were very clear."

Bates seemed a bit frustrated, having the military literal-mindedness turned _against_ him for a change. "Just how much stuff do you ladies need for a single flight?"

Simpson rolled her eyes. "_My_ stuff is here in my travelling bag. But Miko… Dr. Kusanagi comes directly from Tokyo, and she needed a _little_ more, understandably."

The Japanese woman blinked apologetically and nodded several times. She seemed downright terrified. Apparently, military intimidating techniques _did_ work on some people. Simpson patted her on the fragile shoulder encouragingly.

"It's all right, Miko. How many suitcases do you have?"

"Two," Dr. Kusanagi admitted, with an uncertain look at Sergeant Bates' handsome but slightly unfriendly face. "Is that too much for one person? Will there be enough room in the car for them?"

"I'm sure there will, won't there, Sergeant?" Simpson patted her shoulder again and gave Bates a sickeningly sweet smile.

To his credit, Bates recognized a commanding presence when he saw one. "Yes, ma'am. It won't be a problem, ma'am."

His eyes grew cold, and Calvin hoped for Simpson's sake that there were some very specific orders for the Marines at the base that prohibited the shooting of geeks. Sergeant Bates seemed to him like a man who was capable of keeping grudges for a very long time.

* * *

They followed Bates out to the parking lot, where a military jeep was waiting for them. Bates ordered the driver, a good-natured PFC of the size of a walk-in closet to go and fetch Dr. Kusanagi's suitcases, calling him "Smithy", which was something of a surprise. Marines weren't renowned of giving each other pet names. The young soldier carried out the order in record time, and they stuffed all their bags into the jeep and finally got in themselves to leave for the base.

The way through relative darkness was quite long. Calvin supposed they were taking the scenic route _around_ the city, rather than through it – again, so that they'd have difficulties finding their way, until they signed their contracts. With his near-perfect memory, he could have noticed the twists and turns of their route, of course, but he saw no reason to do so. He'd be travelling through the city later anyway. So instead he chose to stare out of the window into the darkness, thinking about the possible scientific challenges that were waiting for them, and trying to persuade himself that he was not excited, studiously ignoring Dr. Felger's feeble attempts to start a conversation.

When they reached the automatic vehicle gate of the base, he noticed with slight discomfort the armed sentries at the checkpoint. They seemed just a bit more wary than they should have been on any normal, boring day.

"The base is on full alert," Simpson commented in a low voice.

Calvin gave her a questioning look behind Bates' back. She pointed at the roof of the cinder-block buildings surrounding the entry that was tucked under the granite overhang of the mountain. In the matte light of the lamps the airmen patrolling the roofs were barely visible but very much present nonetheless.

Calvin considered the importance of their presence. Apparently, those sentries shouldn't be there under normal circumstances, or else Simpson wouldn't be surprised seeing them. Have they been called in because of some sort of impending military crisis? God, he hoped not. All he wanted was a quiet lab where he could do his job.

They passed second and third checkpoints, where both Bates and the driver had to show their ID-cards before allowed to pass. The whole thing made Calvin increasingly nervous. What had he gotten himself into? This started to look like some bad sci-fi movie.

Finally, the vehicle was parked and they got out. Bates ordered Smithy, the driver, to get their luggage to the main facility. That was where they were heading themselves, walking past more sentries – who were carrying both sidearms and rifles – down a long hallway and into a steel elevator. Bates touched a button labelled "Sublevel Eleven", and the elevator began to sink with them deep into the mountain.

Calvin wondered just how deep they were going to go. He'd done his homework, of course, researching on the Internet, and found some limited information about Cheyenne Mountain. So he knew that the center was housed two thousand feet underground and that it was designed to withstand a multi-megaton yield weapon at a range of almost three kilometres. He'd also tried to imagine the design of the complex based on the descriptions, but these depressingly similar corridors didn't tell him whether his imagination was right or wrong.

At Sublevel Eleven they left the elevator and walked down another hallway. Passing a reception desk, Bates swapped information with the uniformed young woman sitting behind it, using some military jargon that said Calvin nothing. He looked at Simpson who shook her head slightly. Must have been some _very_ specific military jargon, then. Bates nodded to the female airman and turned back to his charges.

"We'll have to take another elevator," he announced. "It's a long way down yet."

Calvin refrained from asking _how_ long, knowing he wouldn't get an answer. They rode the other elevator, plunging even deeper into the mountain, then left the steel cabin at Sublevel 27 and walked through other halls. Finally, they turned one last corner and confronted one last guard, who exchanged wordless nods with Bates.

Bates knocked on the heavy door.

"Come," a gruff voice answered from within.

Bates opened the door and indicated them to enter. "This way, please."

* * *

They came into some sort of briefing room, equipped with a long conference table, an overhead projector and a video-conference setup. There was even an automatic whiteboard, the sort where one had to push a button so that a scanning bar would pass over its surface, transferring every written information to a piece of glossy paper extruding from one side. Apparently, no tax dollars were saved when this place had been built.

Several people were sitting on one side of the table (Calvin only recognized Dr. Carter among them, who, just like the others, was military fatigues). The other side was left unoccupied, with four empty seats for the visitors. A middle-aged, rotund man rose from the head of the table when they entered. He had a bald head and sharp features; his small eyes sharp and attentive. He wore the rank insignia of an Air Force general.

Bates came to attention right inside the room, snapping a smart salute.

"Sir, doctors Felger, Kavanagh, Kusanagi and Simpson, as ordered," he said crisply. Calvin rolled his eyes but realized this wouldn't be the best moment to protest.

The general returned the salute. "Thank you, Sergeant. You're relieved, until further notice."

"Yes, sir!" Bates turned on his heals smartly and left the room.

The general looked at his guests with frank interest. "Welcome to Cheyenne Mountain, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "I'm General George Hammond, currently the commanding officer of the command you'll be working for. Have a seat, please."

Calvin took the offered seat with some barely veiled nervousness. He was eager to find out what exactly had he gotten himself into and glared at the general, as if he could make him go on faster by sheer willpower.

"This will be a short orientation only," Hammond continued. "You'll be debriefed in detail later, by Major Carter and the other scientist working here. But before we start anything," he placed similar-looking printouts in front of Calvin and the little Japanese scientist, "you need to sign these."

Ignoring the obvious impatience of the others, Calvin took his time to read the document to the last footnote. It simply said that he swore not to give any information to anyone about anything he might do, see or hear within the MCOC – only phrased more officially and intimidatingly. Well, he could do that. He fished a pen out of his pocket and signed the thing.

Then something occurred to him.

"What about them?" he asked, looking at Felger and Simpson.

"They've already signed a similar declaration at heir previous workplace," the general explained.

Calvin shot them a suspicious look. "Which was where exactly?"

"Area 51," Simpson replied simply.

"Trying to figure out how the hyperdrive of the Roswell UFO works?" Calvin asked with biting sarcasm.

"No," Simpson answered calmly. "Trying to adapt Goa'uld technology to ours and thus developing the first prototype for an outer space combat vessel; an atmospheric glider that is capable of interplanetary space flight as well."

Calvin stared at her in mild shock. "You're kidding, aren't you?"

Simpson shook her head. "No, I'm not. Granted, we were far from finished when I got reassigned, but..."

Calvin needed a moment to digest the information. So, this was the reason for all the secrecy. They wanted to have this project ready before the Russians could catch up with them. Well, good luck. He was all for national security – as long as they didn't want _him_ to be the one who built the weapon. There was one bit of information, however, that didn't say him a thing.

"What sort of technology did you try to adapt?"

"Goa'uld," Carter replied in Simpson's stead. She was sitting near the head of the table, next to an elegantly greying man with an uncanny resemblance to Calvin's childhood TV hero, MacGyver. The one who used his brains instead weapons to fix problems. The very one who'd inspired little Calvin to choose science for the rest of his life.

"We've extracted it from an alien vessel," Carter continued.

"That had crashed in Roswell in the 1950s," Calvin finished for her sarcastically.

"No," Carter said, her eyes deadly serious. "Actually, we shot it down only a couple of years ago."

"As in defending Earth against an alien invasion?" Calvin asked disbelievingly. "Do you think me such an idiot that I won't be able to make a difference between science fiction and military operation? That believes in little green men who'd want to conquer this planet, which, by the way, we've already managed to make near uninhabitable due to pollution? To enslave us all? Oh, please!"

"We're not speaking about little green men," the man who looked like MacGyver said dryly. "We're speaking of snake-like parasites that burrow themselves into your neck and warp their slimy bodies around your spinal cord. After which your central nervous system and your brains are under their control, your eyes begin to glow, and you start talking funny. Trust me; they are _way_ worse than the little green men from _Mars Attacks_."

Calvin couldn't suppress a slightly hysterical laughter.

"Oh, this is rich," he chuckled. "You're trying to make me believe in _Wormhole X-Treme_? Is this some gigantic practical joke? Am I on the set of that silly series? I hope you didn't have me quit my job at CalTech for _that_."

The general and the man who looked like MacGyver exchanged exasperated looks. Before either of them could say anything, though, a fine vibration shook the long conference table, making the glasses with mineral water tremble. At the same time, red lights began to blink above the doors and alarm claxons began to howl. A voice boomed over the loudspeakers.

"Stand by for arrival! Stand by for arrival!"

The MacGyver look-alike gave the general a sardonic smile. "Are we expecting anyone, sir?"

"Major Pierce is due to return with SG-15," the General answered.

"Well," the other man said nonchalantly, "perhaps Dr. Kavanagh would be more inclined to believe us when he got the chance to see the real item with his own eyes."

The general hesitated for a moment – then he pushed a button somewhere under the table and a heavy snap door covering the briefing room's large side window was slowly pulled up, revealing a cavernous chamber beneath them.

* * *

It was a huge room indeed. Calvin guessed it to be about three stories tall; it was hard to make an educated guess with all those surreal dimensions in the gut of the mountain. With all that concrete and steel that seemed to absorb the light of the lamps in there.

At the end of the cavern, opposite the briefing room window, a huge disk stood, seemingly made of steel and stone. A shallow steel-grid ramp led up to it, both ramp and disk set off from the rest of the room by a wide-painted border of yellow and black stripes, alternating with the KEEP CLEAR warning. The disk seemed to be encircled by two concentric stone circles, divided into sections. Each section was engraved with some unknown symbol that vaguely reminded Calvin of simplified drawings of star constellations. The inner ring was moving, like the circle of a combination lock. Following some pattern Calvin couldn't figure out, it spun back and forth. Each time it stopped, a V-shaped section of the outer ring seemed to snap into place, and the symbol under the locked section glowed.

There were soldiers down there in the room, about two dozens of them, in flack jackets, armed to the teeth, pointing their rifles at the middle of the disk that looked like some tightly closed, sharp-edged metal diaphragm. Even some machine-gun emplacements were in place, and Calvin swallowed convulsively. As much as this looked like some all too realistic scene from _Wormhole X-Treme_, Liam's favourite TV-show, he knew with a sickening certainty that this was _not_ a game. This was _real_. Much too real for his taste, truth be told.

"Receiving SG-15's ID code," a disembodied voice said through the loudspeakers.

"Open the iris," the general ordered, and they all watched with various levels of fascination as the metal diaphragm spiralled open, revealing a shimmering surface that was neither light nor water – and yet it seemed to be both at once.

"The event horizon," Simpson commented _sotto voce_, but there was awe behind her seemingly factual comment. "I've seen vids of it… but they're nothing compared with the real item."

"The _event horizon_?" Calvin repeated incredulously. "As in a black hole?"

"Actually," Carter replied, "this is the event horizon of an incoming wormhole. That's how we travel to other planets: through the Stargate."

"The _Stargate_," Calvin repeated tonelessly, feeling like an idiot, but at best as a parrot. "Which is… what exactly?"

"That ring over there," Carter nodded towards the lower room. "It generates a wormhole that ends on a far-away, different planet with another Stargate. It enables us to travel hundreds of light years within seconds."

"Impossible," Calvin shook his head. "I'm no astrophysicist, but the energy needed to form a stable wormhole…"

"… is astronomical," Carter finished for him with a charming grin. "You're right, of course. But you'll see a lot of things here that you'd think impossible. We're dealing with a technology here that's way beyond everything we've been able to create so far."

"And who _did_ create the technology?" Calvin asked. "Those parasites your colleague was speaking about?"

"Not originally, no," Carter replied, "although they've used it ever since the original Gate builder had vanished. No, the Gates – and much more that we've encountered during the last five years – were probably built by an advanced humanoid race that we call the Ancients. They've moved to a higher level of existence a couple of millennia ago and don't need their toys any longer, but we've found their traces on many worlds and are learning more with every new found." She smiled. "I know all this is a bit much to digest at once. I've asked Jonas to give you a thorough introduction as soon as you got settled here. Now, watch!"

And turning his chair, Calvin watched with open-mouthed fascination as several men in military fatigues stepped through the shimmering curtain of the event horizon, as if they'd be appearing out of thin air. Their leader, a handsome officer in his mid-thirties, waved to the armed soldiers in the lower room, then looked up to the briefing room's large window, nodded in greeting and spoke through his radio that was fastened near his left shoulder.

"Mission accomplished, General," his voice came through the loudspeaker. "No casualties. We're all through. Dr. Corrigan has found some interesting stuff."

The general bent to the microphone built into the conference table in front of his seat.

"Welcome back, SG-15," he said. "Debriefing in twenty minutes, Major."

"Understood, sir," the officer replied, then turned to his men. "Move it, people."

The soldiers shouldered their backpacks again and marched out of the room, followed by a short, dark-haired young man who wore the same clothing but was not armed. Probably the aforementioned Dr. Corrigan, then. The event horizon collapsed, the shimmering vanished, leaving the middle of the disk – of the _Stargate_ – silent and empty.

"When it's inactive, you can simply step through it, like through a stone arch," Carter commented softly.

Calvin shook his head in helpless denial. This was so _not_ happening to him! This was insanity. No, worse, this was science fiction. He was a scientist, not some lunatic, why was he here to begin with?

But at the same time he knew that this _was_, indeed happening. That all this was very, _very_ real.

For some reason, that thought frightened him very much.

"Who shut that… thing down, after the soldiers came through?" he asked the first thing that occurred to him, just so that he'd not look like a complete idiot.

"Nobody," Carter replied matter-of-factly. "The Stargate will not close as long as there still is matter in transit, or else the travellers would be killed, accidentally or intentionally. After the transfer is completed, it shuts down automatically, unless kept open. With a strong radio signal, for example, although Colonel O'Neill," she nodded towards the MacGyver look-alike, "once kept it open by simply putting his hand through the event horizon. Anyway, the Gate uses density molecular structure and the force being exterted on the event horizon to determine if something is actually trying to pass through. It interprets radio signals the same way it interprets matter."

Calvin nodded slowly. Although, as he'd pointed out earlier, he was not an astrophysicist, he'd taken astrophysics as a tertiary field for two years, just out of curiosity, so he had enough basic knowledge to understand the explanation.

"I still can't remember any material capable of handling the massive amounts of energy required to create a stable wormhole," he said.

"There isn't any, not on our planet anyway," Carter agreed. "The Gate, like various other pieces of Ancient technology, is made of _naquadah_ – a heavy mineral that does not exist naturally in our solar system, but can be found on various other planets in our galaxy. It can also used for the building of reactors, as it can produce tremendous amounts of clean energy. We got _naquadah_ generator technology from a race called the Orbanians."

"And it could just as easily used to build horrendous weapons, couldn't it?" Calvin asked grimly.

Carter nodded. "Of course. It has highly explosive properties, which make it useful for enhancing the yield of bombs, missiles, and the like."

"Why am I not surprised?" Calvin murmured. Carter gave him a patient look.

"Dr. Kavanagh, you can't even begin to understand what we are dealing with here. We, the people of this little planet, have been facing a threat much more severe than our own foolishness for the last five years. And we are the first line of defence against that threat. Once they get through us, the petty bickering between the individual states would become irrelevant, because none of us will be there to see who had the last word."

"I thought you didn't want me to build weapons," Calvin said bitterly.

"We don't," Carter replied. "We want you to help us to figure out how various pieces of Ancient – or Goa'uld – technology work. To understand better the properties of liquid _naquadah_. To find a way (or rediscover a way) how to use it in propulsion systems. We have enough people to build weapons."

"But why am I here, instead of in Area 51?" Calvin asked. "Isn't that the place where alien technology is supposed to be studied?"

"It is," Carter nodded, "and we have more than enough people over there to do so. "But the really interesting pieces of technology are usually way too big to drag them through the Gate. So we have to go to the places where they are firmly installed, and study them there. Currently, we have fifteen SG-teams that are exploring potentially useful planets all across the galaxy. Half of them have an archaeologist assigned tot hem, but not a really good engineer. We intend to change _that_, which is the reason why we got Dr. Felger and Dr. Simpson reassigned and hired Dr. Kusanagi and you. Among other people who will follow later."

The air suddenly became much too thin in the briefing room.

"You… you want me to go through that… that _thing_ to visit other planets?" Calvin asked, fighting the urge to laugh hysterically by the sheer stupidity of how it sounded.

It sounded exactly like a line from _Wormhole X-Treme_, to tell the truth. No, this couldn't be happening to him!

"Yes," Carter answered simply. "Don't worry; the Gate travel itself is completely safe. And we don't send newbies to potentially dangerous worlds."

Calvin had never been so grateful for being seated like at this moment, when everything went black before his eyes. His last, half-conscious thought was that he really should have eaten something on the plane. Low blood sugar had always been his main physical weakness.

TBC

Note: The fainting thing in _Critical Mass_ always seemed a bit… overdone for me. But since it happened, I've tried to find a logical explanation for it. This is the best I could come up with.


	4. Chapter 4

**Ambitions**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part 1.

To the Jaffa thing: there indeed used to be some sort of thick orange syrup named Jaffa (pronounced 'Yaffa') in Hungary, back in the 1970s. German dubbing used to pronounce the word the same way in the first couple of SG-episodes. I laughed my head off, because I had to think of a bottle of orange syrup whenever Teal'c appeared on screen. Kavanagh couldn't have known this product, of course, but I simply couldn't resist.

* * *

**PART 04**

When he came to again, he was looking up into the face of an angel.

Well, he knew, of course, that it was _not_ an angel. Reverend Luther Kavanagh had made it eminently clear to all three of his errant children that angels didn't have a gender. And that should they have one, they would be all male. That all those heretic ideas about higher beings of female nature were a product of lecherous painters and sculptors – or, nowadays, of advertising execs who had no respect for anything at all.

Unfortunately for the good Reverend, protector of true faith amidst of a sea of agnosticism and heresy, his children had come to a very different conclusion from the one he wanted to lead them to. They'd stopped believing in angels altogether, about the age of ten.

They'd stopped to believe in a great many other things the Reverend was preaching about at the age of fourteen. And none of them had waited to come of age before fleeing the house they'd been unable to call a home.

So yes, Calvin knew that he wasn't really seeing an angel. But the large, beautiful dark eyes, the errant golden-brown locks that had come free to frame a smooth, heart-shaped face, the gentle smile that barely turned the corners of a full mouth upward, were almost enough to make him believe in supernatural beings again. If not in angels, than in good fairies, certainly.

"Is he all right, doctor?" someone asked.

He recognized the general's voice, and – after blinking several times to clear his vision – he saw hat his "angel" was wearing a white lab coat over military fatigues and a stethoscope around her neck.

"There's nothing serious," the lady doctor answered the general. "He just fainted."

"Grown men don't 'just faint', doctor," the general said worriedly. "He _must_ have something serious."

"I'm fine," Calvin struggled back to his feet, mortally embarrassed, but relieved to feel the strong, warm hand of the doctor supporting him. "It's nothing a few power bars or a generous piece of chocolate cake wouldn't cure. Just a bad case of low blood sugar."

"You're diabetic?" the doctor asked with a frown. "It's not in your file."

Calvin shook his head… and regretted it right away, as the movement made him dizzy again. "No, it's just so that my blood sugar level tends to drop abruptly under stress. And I can't eat on a plane… my stomach can't take it."

"When was the last time you ate anything?" the doctor asked.

"Somewhen in the morning," Calvin shrugged. "There was too much to do, I didn't have time for lunch. And I forgot to pocket a few sweets for later."

"You're worse than Dr. McKay," Carter said. "He's always complaining about becoming hypoglycaemic, but at least he doesn't pass out in the middle of a conversation."

Calvin knew she was teasing, but being compared with _McKay_, of all people, was more than he could take, atop all the surprises today.

"The difference is," he replied icily, "that McKay is a hypochondriac, while _my_ condition is real."

"Has this happened to you before?" the doctor hurriedly intervened, before things could become really ugly.

Calvin nodded. "When I was on the athletics team of the college and didn't get enough calories before intensive training. I learned quickly how to watch my diet, and the problems stopped." He saw the others staring at him in surprise and scowled. "What? Just because I'm a scientist and need glasses to read, it doesn't mean I'm a complete geek. I was a junior champion in javelin throwing, and I used to play basketball, too. Not that I'd need it to get a scholarship, of course. _And_ I used to run marathons in high school. Brains and fitness aren't mutually exclusive, as you of all people should know."

The silver-haired colonel – O'Neill, Carter had called him O'Neill, Calvin remembered – clasped his shoulder in a friendly manner.

"Don't work yourself up, doc," he said wryly. "We'll tell your team leader to feed you well, and you'll do just nicely."

Calvin flinched involuntarily – being touched that way always called up unpleasant memories – but managed not to tear his shoulder free from the colonel's hand. O'Neill must have noticed something, however, because he withdrew his hand, just a bit faster than necessary, and with an almost apologetic shrug.

"General," he turned to Hammond, "I think our newbies had enough excitement for one evening. How about putting them into the guest rooms and continuing this in the morning?"

"That's probably a good idea," Hammond agreed. "We'll have to debrief SG-15 anyway. It's better when our… guests have a good night's sleep before given the grand tour."

"I still want Dr. Kavanagh to come to the infirmary first," the lady doctor said. "I need to check his blood sugar level before I let him go."

Calvin tried to protest but nobody listened to him. So he followed the pretty doctor, muttering darkly under his breath.

* * *

They needed to ride the secondary elevator again, as the infirmary was on Sublevel 21, six levels higher. As it was nighttime, only two duty nurses were present, analyzing some examination results in the adjoining lab.

There were no patients treated currently, but Calvin could see, even in the semi-darkness, that the infirmary was better equipped than any similar place he'd ever seen – and he _had_ seen his fair share of hospitals, examination rooms and the likes, due to Tommy's condition. It made sense, though. God only knew what people might encounter on those missions (his brain still refused to accept the fact that said missions went to other planets). They had to be capable of handling all sorts of injuries and biological hazards. The implications were barely imaginable, and Calvin eyed the petite lady doctor with newly-found respect. Dealing with that sort of stuff on a daily basis must have been really challenging.

One of the nurses, a serene-looking brunette, came forth from the lab when they entered.

"Do you need us, Dr. Fraiser?" she asked.

The doctor smiled; she had a truly beautiful smile, Calvin found.

"Thank you, Karen, but it's not necessary," she replied. "I'm only doing a simple blood test."

The nurse nodded and returned to her lab. Dr. Fraiser drew a little blood from a fingertip, made the quick test and _hmmm_-ed.

"A little low indeed, but not dangerously so."

Calvin shrugged. "I told you so. As soon as I've eaten something, the results should return to normal."

"It still could be a problem on an off world mission," Dr. Fraiser sat down to the medical computer and called up his file. "I'll make an entry. When you're assigned to an SG-team, I'll have to inform your commanding officer. He'll need to know."

"Nobody seems to bother to ask me if I actually _want_ to be sent off-world," Calvin said, a little agitated.

"That's what you're here for," the doctor replied with a shrug; then she gave him a mischievous smile. "Trust me, once you've stepped through the Gate, you're gonna love it for the rest of your life."

"You have…?" Calvin trailed off, amazed.

Her smile grew from ear to ear. "Oh, yes! Many times. It's really fascinating," she turned back to her computer. "Is there any other… condition of yours that I should know about?"

"I'm a Fragile X carrier," Calvin shrugged. "But since I don't intend to have children with anyone at my workplace, I don't think it's really important."

"It's important that I know everything about all the people who work here," she corrected. "Especially about those who're sent out on off-world missions. You can be confronted by unknown germs and substances, and any illness or condition you might have can influence the reactions of your body."

"The whole interplanetary travel thing sounds more and more unattractive," Calvin commented glumly.

"Nonsense," she waved impatiently. "Every day you walk around in a big city, you're potentially exposed to germs that could kill you. There are no isolated viruses or bacteria on Earth any longer. In fact, you have a better chance to remain healthy here, since we regularly test all our co-workers and put them through decon after every mission."

She closed the file and logged out. "Now, let's get some calories into your system before you go to bed. The commissary is open around the clock because of the irregularly returning off-world teams. Few other planets have a 24-hour-day like ours."

She hung up her lab coat, and Calvin followed her to the elevator, still bewildered by the easy manner she spoke about other planets and interplanetary travel.

"How long have you been here, doc?" he asked, when they went one level down and entered the commissionary.

"Almost five years by now," she replied. "I came shortly after the Gate had been reopened."

"Reopened?" Calvin frowned. "As in opposite to having been closed for a while?"

She smiled and asked the server for leftovers from dinner _or_ lunch. The server offered her orange duck and the ever-popular meatloaf with mashed potatoes, and cheesecake for dessert. She chose the duck, while Calvin opted for the cake alone, as the best way to get as many calories into his system as possible, in the shortest time possible. He was too agitated to put away an entire meal anyway.

"It's a long story," the doctor said, while they walked to one of the empty tables; there weren't many other people in the commissary, with SG-15 probably still on their debriefing or whatnot. "I'm sure someone will give you all the little details, soon. Let's only say, that the Gate was first activated six years ago. Colonel O'Neill had an… unpleasant adventure on a planet named Abydos, and after that, the Gate was closed. They thought this was the only place accessible by the Gate anyway."

"And it wasn't?" Calvin asked, taking a careful bit from his huge slab of cheesecake. Surprisingly enough, it was quite good.

The doctor shook her head. "Not by far. But it wasn't until a year later, when hostile aliens dialled in unexpectedly, that they realized there was a huge network of Gates, and that our Gate could take them to practically any planet that has a receiving Gate itself. Now, I don't even pretend to understand the physics involved, but you can discuss _that_ part with Sam Carter later. In any case, that was the actual beginning of the whole Stargate program. A few weeks later, I got reassigned here from Bethesda."

"Just like that?"

"I'm an Air Force major, aside from being a medical doctor, and I've been with the military for a long time, Dr. Kavanagh. One learns to stay mobile and to travel light."

"Must be hard on the family, though," he said.

"Yeah," Dr. Frasier admitted, her beautiful, jewel-like eyes clouding just a little. "My ex-husband couldn't take it, so he left. Can't say that I miss him, though, not much anyway. Cassie and I are rather content together."

"Your daughter?"

"Adopted daughter. She's a bit precocious, but a nice kid nevertheless."

"Sounds like my eldest," Calvin smiled, albeit a bit sadly, because he often wanted that Liam could have had a nice, normal, undisturbed childhood. "Six years old and already talks like an adult sometimes."

"Must be a clever boy," she said. "I'd like to meet him one day."

"I can't promise anything," Calvin said reluctantly. "He's afraid of people he doesn't know. Maybe when he's got settled in his new environment a little. He had real problems with changes."

"Which was understandable, considering the trauma his mother had put him through at the tender age of three. But Calvin was _not_ willing to talk about those things to a complete stranger. Hell, he hadn't talked about his family to the people he'd talked with at CalTech for years!

Dr. Fraiser seemed to understand his reluctance, because she dropped the topic tactfully. She rose with her tray.

"Well, you should get some rest," she suggested. "Tomorrow will be a long day for you. The first time is always the most stressful here. I'll show you to your quarters."

She took him up to the guest quarters on Sublevel 17 before leaving for home. Those looked like typical hotel rooms – like medium-sized, _extremely_ Spartan hotel rooms. A reasonably large bed served as a centerpiece, and it was flanked by two nightstands, with a reading lamp on the left and his travelling bag carefully placed on the right. A side door led into a small sanitary unit.

Calvin thanked the lady doctor, who took her leave from him, and – fishing his toothbrush from the bag – walked into the shower, adamantly refusing to give his situation any further thought. _That_ would have led to a sleepless night, and he couldn't afford to face any further _surprises_ without a basic amount of rest.

Fortunately, the Reverend had forced all his children to undergo rigorous intellectual exercises from a very young age on. Not for the first time, all that mental discipline proved useful to put things he didn't want to brood about firmly out of focus, for further contemplation.

He took a quick shower, towelled himself dry, brushed his teeth and want to bed in his dark, windowless room. He hadn't felt this much imprisoned since he'd fled his so-called home at the age of sixteen. But unlike now, back then he'd actually _known_ where he was heading.

* * *

He woke to the rather unpleasant sound of someone banging on his door. As always, he was wide awake within seconds – and royally pissed. He wasn't a morning person by nature, and although he'd trained himself to wake quickly – a necessary trait for a single parent – he didn't take it kindly when people tore him so roughly from whatever sleep he'd been able to find.

He struggled to his feet, pulled over the discarded shirt from the previous day and went to open the door. A young man in his late twenties stood on the doorstep, wearing the usual military fatigues as everyone seemed to do here. He was tall, well-muscled and had a military buzz cut. _Perfect_, Calvin thought sourly, _now I'm in boot camp, too._

"Hello," the young man said nonchalantly; then, taking in Calvin's dishevelled looks, he instantly apologized. "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot that the guest rooms aren't included in the morning alarm system. Did I wake you?"

"Obviously," Calvin replied dryly. "But since I'm awake now, you can tell me who you are and what you want."

"Oh," the young man cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed. "Well, I'm Jonas Quinn. Major Carter asked me to drive you to the house they'd selected for you and to tell you everything you want to know."

"_Everything_?" Calvin raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"Well," Jonas seemed a bit uncomfortable, "everything _I know_, that is. Which isn't overwhelmingly much. I'm rather new here, myself. I'll… I'll wait for you in the commissary."

"Get me some coffee," Calvin murmured, walking back into his room already. "A gallon or so would be enough."

* * *

Half an hour later – which was still ungodly early for his taste – he entered the commissary, freshly showered and shaven, neatly combed and wearing a fresh shirt. He felt considerably better. He usually avoided to be seen in an untidy state; it made him feel vulnerable and incompetent, both feelings he hated. Now he felt that he could face an entire room full of military types, if he had to.

To his secret relief, the commissary wasn't particularly crowded; perhaps the jarheads had already had their breakfast. Jonas Quinn was waiting for him at one of the tables, with coffee, a can of milk and various bowls of oatmeal, cereal, fruit loops and cornflakes.

"I didn't know what you wanted," he explained with a shrug, "so I got you a little of everything."

"Thanks," Calvin selected the bowl with the cornflakes – he _hated_ fruit loops, they were bad for the teeth, and oatmeal wasn't much better than semi-fluid glue – poured cold milk over them and began to eat. He'd have preferred rye bread and ham, but he wasn't in any condition to make demands here.

Jonas pushed an extra large mug of coffee in his direction. "Your poison."

Calvin nodded his thanks, wondering a little about the other man's completely accent free English. He'd never heard anything like that before.

"Where are you from?" he asked. "I can't place your accent… or the lack of it, to be more accurate."

"Kelowna," Jonas shrugged. "You wouldn't have heard of it, I assume. It's one of the major powers on a planet named Langara, although the people here have a different designation number for it. Something with PX-whatever. I never bothered to learn. It's just a number in a catalogue my people don't even use."

Calvin put down his mug of coffee a bit too hastily. Some of the hot liquid sloshed over his hand and he winced.

"Does that mean that you're not even human?" he asked, after the first shot of pain ebbed away.

"Oh, I'm human enough," Jonas replied. "I'm just not from this planet. I've only been here for three months… even less than three months, to tell the truth."

Not certain whether the young man was lunatic or not, Calvin decided _not_ to provoke him.

"Well, you certainly _look_ human," he said. "How can you come from a different planet?"

"I assume you've heard of the Goa'uld already?" Jonas asked. Calvin nodded. "Well, they used to transport whole tribes of humans from Earth to other worlds, so that they'd have servants, over whom they could reign as gods. The guy who occupied my planet some three thousand years ago was called Thanos, but we don't know much about him yet. We only unearthed his temple – with the Stargate in it – some fifteen years ago."

"And what are you doing here?" Calvin asked casually, as if talking to aliens – or potentially insane people, alien or not – would be something he did on a daily basis.

"Nothing in particular," Jonas admitted, a little sadly. "They don't really know what to do with me, and I can't go home."

"Why not?"

"That's a long story," Jonas sighed. "Perhaps one day I'll tell you the whole thing, but right now, I just don't feel up to the challenge."

"Give me the nutshell version, then," Calvin said, pouring himself a second mug of coffee.

"All right," Jonas said. "The thing is, my home planet is rich in a rare version of _naquadah_… you heard about _naquadah_ already?"

"Yes, Major Carter mentioned it to me. It's the mineral the Gate is build of, right?"

"Among other things, yes. Anyway, my folks decided that it would be a good idea to build a bomb to become the main power on our planet, as we were in serious disadvantage compared with Terrania and the Antari Federation."

"Which are the other two major powers, I assume?"

"Yes. Anyway, our scientists were on the best way to finish their work, when something went horribly wrong, just when SG1 was visiting. The entire group of scientists working on the bomb was killed by the accident, and Dr. Jackson, the archaeologist of SG-1, got a lethal dosis of neutron radiation. My government tried to put the blame on him, even though he saved millions of lives by deactivating the unstable reactor."

"And what does it have to do with you?" Calvin asked, enjoying his second mug if coffee.

"I stood there like an idiot and watched Dr. Jackson save my people," Jonas replied gloomily. "I couldn't allow them to blame him for their own failure. So I told everyone the truth, stole as much _naquadria_ as I could, and fled through the Gate to Earth."

"And _naquadria_ is…?"

"And extremely unstable, radioactive version of _naquadah_," Jones explained. "According to Major Carter, it has great potential for creating energy shields and hyperdrive engines and that sort of thing. I'm not sure. I have my degrees in social sciences, linguistics and anthropology. In physics, I'm just a well-informed civilian who is still trying to get into the really serious stuff."

"You still know a great deal more than I do," Calvin said. "It's… unusual for someone who's more interested in soft science."

"Well, I worked as a liaison between our scientists and the High Minister – it's the same thing as your President – for six years, and I learned a lot from them. Besides, I haven't done anything else but reading since I came here… and I have a photographic memory."

"That could be very useful," Calvin said, a little enviously. His memory was better than average – plus he had the advantage of a well-organized, disciplined mind – but he had to work consequently to keep it in form. He'd have loved to have a photographic memory. It'd have made things so much easier.

"Not always," Jonas shrugged. "It makes me remember all the unpleasant things vividly, too."

"One can learn to organize one's mind," Calvin said. "To isolate bothersome memories, so that they wouldn't surface spontaneously. It's not an easy task, granted, and it has to be honed all the time, but it's doable."

"I know," Jonas said. "That's how I get through my life without turning mad. Still, I'd like if I could simply… forget things sometimes."

"Forgetfulness would only lead us to repeat grievous mistakes that we've made in the past, JonasQuinn," a deep, resonant voice said, and a large, solid, dark-skinned man stepped up to their table, with a heavily laden tray in his big hands. His cleanly shaven skull emphasized his strong features, and on his forehead was a golden symbol, some sort of tattoo? An oval lying on its side, concerning a serpentine line, like a stylized snake.

Jonas laughed mirthlessly.

"Hi Teal'c," he said. "This is Dr. Kavanagh. He's new here."

The big man bowed in polite acknowledgement, which wasn't an easy trick to pull with the tray in his hands, but he managed it nevertheless.

"I am pleased to meet you, DoctorKavanagh," he said.

Calvin found it strange how he didn't make any distinction between title and name. And although the man seemed human enough – he could have been African or African-American by the looks of him – something was definitely… odd about him. And not his name or that unusual tattoo alone.

"Someone from your home planet?" Calvin asked Jonas, trying to ignore the ridiculous sound of his own question.

"No," Jonas replied lightly," he's from a world named Chulak."

"I'm a Jaffa," the big man added, as if it would explain anything. Which it did not, of course.

"Jaffa? Wasn't that the name for a specific blend of orange juice?" Calvin asked with a frown, remembering some half-forgotten childhood stories about his uncle's visit in Europe.

The two men – the two _aliens_, he reminded himself, no matter how silly it sounded – gave him identical blank looks.

"Not on my world," Teal'c declared with dignity.

"How could I know _that_? I'm new on Earth, remember?" Jonas replied.

"I think it was," Calvin mused. "Back in the 1970s, perhaps. No offence intended," he looked at Teal'c apologetically.

The big man – _alien_? – inclined his head. "None taken. There are many words in various languages that sound similar. Now if you will excuse me… I believe O'Neill is getting impatient."

He walked away from their table, joining Colonel O'Neill – the one who looked like MacGyver – a bit further up in a corner.

"Just how many extraterrestrials _are_ here on this base?" Calvin asked, still finding it rather… hilarious to ask such things.

"You've already met both," Jonas answered. "Oh, sure, there are visiting dignitaries on every odd day, but Teal'c and I are the only permanent residents. He is a member of SG-1, together with Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter."

"And which team do _you_ belong to?" Calvin asked.

"No one. Hell, I _wish_ I could join SG-1 eventually," Jonas said with a wistful smile. "I mean, they lost their archaeologist and will need a new one eventually. I practically absorbed Dr. Jackson's journals and am working towards the hard science stuff. But Colonel O'Neill is not particularly fond of me, so my joining any team at any given time is rather unlikely."

"Why?"

"Dr. Jackson and he were close friends. I'm the one who let Dr. Jackson die in order to save _my_ people, without moving a finger to help him." He swallowed. "I'm not proud of it. There's nothing to be proud of the fact that I could have done the same thing but was too mortified to act. Colonel O'Neill isn't going to forget that any time, soon. Or let _me_ forget it."

"You're not military," Calvin said. "They can't expect you to act as a trained Marine would."

"Daniel… Dr. Jackson wasn't a soldier, either, and he _did_ act like one."

"How long was he with SG-1?"

"Almost six years. He went through the Gate with Colonel O'Neill when it was first activated."

"And he visited how many planets in those six years?"

"Dozens. Hundreds perhaps. I'm not sure. Why?"

"I'd say that's sufficient training in how to react during a crisis," Calvin pointed out. "Have you ever done anything similar?"

"Not really. I mean, I _had_ some basic military training like everyone in Kelowna, but no practice whatsoever."

"Then it would be unreasonable to expect you to react like a soldier," Calvin concluded.

"I doubt that Colonel O'Neill would see it the same way," Jonas said sadly.

"Then you should try to corner one of the other team members first," Calvin suggested. "They might bring him around a lot easier."

"It's not that simple," Jonas sighed. "Dr. Jackson was their friend, too. They've worked together for five years. And now he's dead, because I was too much of a coward to act."

"Everyone makes mistakes," Calvin shrugged, his own marriage coming to his mind. "Sometimes with terrible consequences. But you can't change the past. You can only try _not_ to repeat the same mistakes, as the big guy just said.

Just as he would never jump into a hurried marriage again, so that his boys would suffer from a bad decision.

"And Major Carter looks reasonable enough," he added.

"Perhaps," Jonas said reluctantly; then he rose. "When you're done here, we should go now. You have a meeting with Major Carter at 1400; we need to return to base before lunch."

"I'm done," Calvin drained his coffee mug. "How have you learned to drive in only three months anyway?"

"I haven't," Jonas replied. "We have similar vehicles in Kelowna. With different sort of fuel, but based on the same principles. I only needed to learn the traffic rules."

"And you have a car of your own already?

"Of course not. We'll try to borrow one from the base. There are always some available."

They rode both elevators up to the car park, where they met Sergeant Bates, who was overlooking two Marines loading carton boxes into a small, neutral-looking van.

"Hey, Sergeant," Jones greeted him. "Do you have any free cars for us?"

Bates consulted his list. "Afraid not. But one will come back in two hours' time."

"Well, that's a little late for us," Jonas said unhappily. "We need to get back within four hours."

"Where do you want to go?" Bates asked.

"Major Carter asked me to show Dr. Kavanagh here his new home," Jonas gave the sergeant the address.

"You can come with me," Bates offered. "I have to take some stuff to Colonel O'Neill's place; it's only two streets away."

Jonas looked at Calvin. "You okay with that?"

Calvin shrugged. He wanted to see the house very much, and he'd already sat in the same car with the sergeant and survived it.

"Works for me," he said.

"All right, get in then," Bates said and called over to a fresh-faced young Marine who wore the same rank insignia. "Hey, Stackhouse, you run the shop for me till noon, will you?"

"Sure," the other Marine replied, giving the two civilians pointed looks. "Have fun."

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Ambitions**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part 1.

Kavanagh checks out his new home, learns quite a bit of SGC history and gets to see a Goa'uld for the first time.

**Warning:** Goa'uld-related ickiness!

* * *

**PART 05**

Sergeant Bates drove them for about twenty-five minutes, then he turned into a side street on the left, then another two times to the right. Finally, he stopped the van in a quiet little lane, not completely unlike the one in which Calvin had lived in Pasadena, with L-shaped, two-story houses, surrounded by relatively large gardens.

"That's the one," Bates pointed out the house on the other side of the lane. It seemed to have been unoccupied for quite some time: in a good shape, but the garden too perfectly manicured for someone actually living here.

"It's been empty for a couple of years, serving as a guest house for long-time visitors, the staff sergeant says," Bates added, as if reading Calvin's thoughts. "It's furnished, but if you don't want to keep the furniture, it can be stored elsewhere. Colonel Makepeace, the last permanent inhabitant, won't need any of the stuff."

"Why not?" Jonas asked.

"He's serving a life sentence for treason," Bates answered with a grim smile. "His needs are taken care of in Fort Lauderdale." He handed Calvin the keys and a piece of chalk. "I'll come back for you in about two hours' time, doc. Take a good look around, and mark all the things you want to be removed. Someone will come later to get the unnecessary stuff to storage."

He ushered them out of the van and drove away, to do whatever task he'd been appointed with.

"Well," Jonas said to the still hesitant Calvin, "shouldn't we go in?"

"Yeah, we should," Calvin agreed, opening the front door.

He liked the house instantly. It had large windows that allowed the light and the sight of the garden into the building, making it bright and airy, and tinted with green from the light bouncing off the garden. The kitchen was of a sensitive size, and a slide glass door led directly into the dining area with a large, massive oak table, six chairs of the same style and, surprisingly enough, bookshelves under the windowsill.

"Nice view," Jonas commented, meaning the lush garden in full bloom that could be seen through the large dining room window.

Calvin nodded wordlessly, making a mental note to establish some sort of fence around the garden, so that Tommy wouldn't accidentally run onto the street. He hoped that wasn't against regulations. He'd have to ask Bates. The sergeant seemed to know about everything concerning the CMOC and its personnel.

Having taken a look at the kitchen and the dining room, they reached a T-junction at the end of the hall. There was a railing for stairs that led down to the basement in front of them. Going down the stairs, they found a surprisingly large room, cleaned out and completely empty. About a third of it was separated by a room divider that also could have been used as a book-case. The entire basement had a row of small windows, directly under its ceiling, providing enough light to read… well, barely.

"Hmmm, not bad," Jonas judged. "It would make a nice study for you, and you'd still have some storage space if you wanted."

Again, that was true enough. He could work here without being disturbed by whatever noise his boys decided to make upstairs, while the rest of the family would have enough room to live. His old desk would fit in perfectly, and as for other furniture, after the first paycheck he might be able to buy some.

They went upstairs again and along the corridor that went off to their right from the T-juncture. There they found a large living room, three small bedrooms, a bathroom and another short stairway that led to the second floor. Which had originally been an attic, most likely, but turned into another living area, with two bedrooms and an additional bathroom.

As they were walking around the house, Calvin felt the knot in his stomach slowly getting loose. The house was perfect. The furnishing and furniture plain and a bit conservative, but they could change that, given enough time – and some money, which he was going to have, sooner or later. They hadn't been lying to him. He could bring his family here. The boys would have their own room each, and should Dion choose to move in with them again after graduation, he could have one of the bedrooms in the first floor.

"Let's take a look at the garden," he said, and Jonas followed him readily.

He was less interested in the garden itself than in finding a corner where they could put Patrick's little workshop. The man needed to work in order to remain sane, and even if only for his own family. Until he found some work outside, he could do all the little changes that needed to be done for the house to become their home.

The garage was large enough for two cars, but that wouldn't be the best solution. They _would_ need two cars eventually, for the entire family to stay mobile, and they needed to stay mobile with two children who had so very different needs in terms of school and everything else. So they couldn't turn half the garage into a workshop.

Fortunately, they found some sort of little barn on the other side of the garage; apparently, the gardeners used it to keep their tools there. Well, as their services wouldn't be used any longer, they could take the stuff with them and Patrick could move in with his own tools.

Looking up, he saw Jonas watching him with a broad grin.

"You like the place," the young man – well, _alien_ – declared in satisfaction.

Calvin nodded. "It will do," he said, a little haughtily, but only to somehow conceal his immense relief.

He liked the place indeed. In fact, it was almost too perfect to be true.

He spent another hour or so with marking the pieces of furniture that needed to be put into storage. They were property of the military, according to the labels on the underside, so he didn't want to keep any that weren't necessary. But some of the furniture they had back in Pasadena belonged to the landlord and some pieces were beyond repair, even for Patrick, so he couldn't send everything away here.

When he was done, they returned to the living room and waited for the return of Sergeant Bates, sitting on the sofa in comfortable silence for a while.

"Would you mind if I called my family?" Calvin asked, fishing the cell phone out of his pocket."

"Do you wish to be alone?" Jonas was rising already, but Calvin stopped him.

"That's not necessary. I won't tell them anything that you don't know already."

The phone rang four times before someone answered it in Pasadena.

"_O'Malley_," Siobhan's voice said, taut with anxiety.

"It's me, Siobhan," Calvin said.

"_Calvin, oh God, Calvin, I'm so glad to hear your voice_," Siobhan, always a sea of calmness, even in times of the one or other crisis, sounded almost hysterical. "_Are you all right? We were getting really afraid here."_

"I'm sorry, sis, but I couldn't call you earlier," Calvin apologized. "Cell phones don't work under two thousand feet of solid granite. I'm fine, don't worry."

"_Where are you now_?" Siobhan asked.

"In Colorado Springs," he said. "I'm measuring up our new home. I think you'll like it."

"_Did you get the job then_?" she inquired.

"Yes, it seems so," he said. "I'll have the first meeting after lunch, but since I got the keys already, I think it's a done deal. How are things back home?"

"_We've nearly finished packing_," she told him "_Patrick's taken most of the boxes to the movers. We can board a plane any time you're ready to pick us up_."

"I don't know yet how long it takes to sign all the papers and make the arrangements," Calvin said. "Hopefully no longer than a couple of days. I'll call you as soon as I can. I'D like to speak with Tommy now, is it possible?"

"_He's had a bad day_," Siobhan warned. "_I'm not sure he'll come to the phone. And Liam refused to go to school_."

"That was to be expected," Calvin sighed. "All right, I'll speak with Liam first. Try to cajole Tommy to the phone in the meantime, will you?"

"_Try is the key word here_," Siobhan replied. For a moment, she was murmuring something off the phone, and then Calvin could hear the tentative voice of his firstborn.

"_Papa_?" His sons never called him Father, that cold and distant title belonged to the Reverend, but for some reason Liam didn't call him Dad, either. He wasn't sure why; most likely as a result of their separation.

The boy _had_ said Dad to him before… well, before Bethany's snatch-and-run action, but never afterwards. Something had been broken during their time apart, something that hadn't quite healed yet. So they had settled for Papa, one of the few words Tommy introduced to the family's vocabulary.

"_Papa?_" Liam repeated anxiously. "_Are you coming home, soon?_"

"No, little bit," pet names didn't come easily to him; they had been heavily frowned upon in the Reverend's house, and the indoctrination so thorough that he still had difficulties using them. But Liam desperately needed the reassurance, so he tried his best, even if it sounded awkward in his own ears. "You're coming here – all of you. We got a new house. It's bigger than the old one, and it has a real garden. You'll love it."

"_When can we come to you?"_ Liam asked, between longing and suspicion. Calvin sighed, wondering how long it would take for the boy to trust adults again.

"In a few days," he promised. "I have a few things to take care of here first, but then you'll board a plane with Aunt Siobhan and Uncle Patrick and come here. Would that be all right?"

"_Ye-es,"_ Liam allowed reluctantly.

"In the meantime, I want you to go to school, every day," Calvin said. "The new school I hope to enrol you here is a good one, but if you miss classes back home, it'll be much harder for you to catch up with the other kids here. Understood?"

He'd researched the schools in the Cheyenne Mountain School District 12 and found one that he thought would be good for both boys, having kindergarten and a student support center for both the gifted children and those in need for special care. He hadn't had the time to talk to the principal yet, but he hoped that there won't be any problems to get his sons in.

"_Understood,"_ Liam replied sullenly. He found school boring, since he was so much smarter than the other kids of his age, but Calvin knew he would obey. He might rebel against his aunt and uncle but he'd never dare to rebel against his father. Sometimes Calvin doubted that _that_ was really such a good thing. He didn't want his boys fear him like he'd feared the Reverend when he was little. But it could be useful at times like that.

"That's my boy," he praised. "Now, is Tommy anywhere near?"

"_He's sulking,"_ Liam told him, in a tone that made it very clear how unfair he found that Tommy was allowed to sulk while he wasn't. "_Won't come to the phone."_

Calvin sighed. _That_ was to be expected, too. Tommy reacted to changes even worse than Liam, since he didn't understand them.

"All right, then," he said. "Tell him I miss him. I miss you all. I'll call you again tomorrow, if I can, but don't worry if it takes a day or so longer. Be a good boy, little bit."

"_Yes, Papa,"_ there was a little pause, and then Liam's voice began to tremble. "_I miss you, too_," and with that, the boy hung up.

Calvin pocketed his cell phone and slumped onto the sofa again, hoping that Jonas won't be asking any questions. He missed his family badly but wasn't willing to discuss them with strangers.

Not even with friendly aliens who took him in with open arms.

* * *

Sergeant Bates had managed to get him back to the CMOC in time – barely – and they had the most thorough debriefing of their lives. _Them_ being Simpson, Kusanagi, Felger and himself, plus some other people he didn't recognize; based on their accent, they had to be Russians.

At any other time, he'd have found it disturbing that the US military was working together with the Russians on some top secret project. Right now, however, he was being confronted with so many facts that were a great deal more disturbing that the Russians were the least of his concerns. Really, it was several magnitudes worse than any sane person could have digested in the short time available – and the stuff for serious nightmares.

He'd always thought that pollution and/or nuclear warfare would be the biggest threats for Earth.

Well, he'd been mistaken, obviously.

Although both the General and Colonel Whatshisname (the one he'd nicknamed MacGyver) were present, Dr, Carter – no, _Major_ Carter – was the one to give them the short summary of the events that had happened in the recent six years. _Short_ being relative, of course. Fortunately, she was a very good speaker, drawing the mental pictures in clearly defined lines and showing them some real pictures to illustrate her words.

Still, it was all very hard to take.

Parasitic aliens on a crusade for world domination at the best of times, or utter destruction at the worst.

Sentient snakes that lived inside human bodies, dominated their hosts' will and mind and made their eyes glow; not to mention cause them to speak funny, like in a stupid horror movie.

Alien invaders in human disguise who appeared on the less developed planets, acting as local gods – and, by the way, were bickering among each other in the petty and less than god-like manner of ancient Greek gods – but, unfortunately, also possessed a technology that was millennia beyond everything Earth could currently offer.

That last part buggered Calvin most. He loved challenges, but he preferred ones that he actually had a chance to master.

Still, it seemed that they could learn a lot about the technology gotten from those Goa'uld. And then there was the long-extinct race of the Gate builders, whose knowledge was positively beyond imagination.

Too bad that it was mostly lost knowledge.

But then, there were the Asgard, with such a striking resemblance to the imaginary Roswell aliens that it would have been hilarious, had they not been _real_. Plus, the fragile little guys seemed very technically savvy. They had once been allied to the Ancients – the Gate-builders – after all.

Which didn't save them from having their scrawny grey asses beaten across several galaxies by semi-sentient, bug-like little robots. Against whom the more primitive Earth technology seemed to be a lot more effective.

Life was definitely strange.

_Strange_ being relative, especially caught up in this nightmare of really weird science fiction.

Only that it was the reality. Which made the whole thing even harder to swallow.

* * *

"This was only a rough outline of the Stargate program," Major Carter finished. "You'll be given access to the mission reports that might in any way be related to your work, of course."

"Does it include detailed descriptions of alien technology?" Calvin asked, still sounding fairly ridiculous in his own ears.

Carter nodded. "Of course, Dr. Kavanagh. We hope that your knowledge about liquid crystals will be a considerable help with Ancient technology, which is almost entirely crystal-based. Currently, we're trying to reverse engineer the technology. Unfortunately, we're still light years away from actually being able to do so, but that's why you are here."

"I thought I was supposed to go to other planets through that ridiculous gate of yours," Calvin said, frowning. He ignored the protesting noises coming from Felger's direction.

"You are," Carter said, "but only on a semi-regular basis. Our teams go through the Gate, make basic survey, and if they find anything promising that can't be removed and brought back, we send in the scientists and technicians."

"That's a relief," Calvin commented. "People with our IQs are too valuable to be used as cannon fodder."

"Don't worry, doc," Colonel MacGyver said dryly. "That's what people like me are here."

The others, however, didn't take Calvin's remark as good-naturedly as the Colonel had. Simpson shot him looks that could have frozen Hell over (which practically proved that she had to be an army brat), Kusanagi seemed frightened, and Felger… Felger was spluttering with indignation.

"Doctor, do you have an idea whom you're talking to? I mean, they're SG-1! The best of the best! And Major Carter… she's single-handedly revolutionized our knowledge of Stargate technology…"

"I'm trembling with excitement," Calvin replied in a bored tone. He knew it wasn't the wisest thing to do, but Felger's ass-kissing annoyed the living hell out of him.

"… and she goes on of-worlds missions all the time!" Felger finished, as if he hadn't heard him.

Calvin shrugged. "She's military. We're not."

"No, you're a coward," Felger growled.

"And _you_ are a pathetic idiot," Calvin riposted. "You're not supposed to be a superhero – that's what the military types are for. You're supposed to be a super-geek. We all are. That's why we were called in. So, let's do our job and allow the soldiers to do theirs."

Colonel MacGyver gave him a sardonic smile. "You know, doc, I might come to actually _like_ you."

Carter rolled her eyes and murmured something like 'why am I not surprised?' but in a manner that clearly showed that she wasn't really upset with her commanding officer. It must have been a really old teasing game between the two of them.

"Well," she said, "now that you've – hopefully – understood what we're dealing with here, I'd like to ask you to got to the office of our personnel chief and sign your contracts. They are binding for the next two years, after which both sides can choose to renew it – or not. There will also be a lawyer present, should you have any legal questions concerning your contract."

"When will we be assigned to our off-world teams?" Simpson asked.

"You'll be given four days to get your bearings both on the base and in Colorado Springs," the General answered. "After that, your work starts here, full time. Should you need any help with getting settled, turn to the officer assigned to the scientific team. He'll provide anything you might need, from transportation to the help with dealing with local authorities. Any further questions?"

"Actually, I do have one," Felger seemed a bit nervous, but determined all the same. "We've been told a lot about these Goa'uld, but – are we ever gonna see one?"

"Why'd you like to do _that_?" Colonel MacGyver asked incredulously. "Those snakes are _disgusting_ – and seeing one wouldn't do any good for your work here."

"By all due respect, Colonel, we need to know what we're fighting against," Felger protested, apparently eager to glare down the enemy – as long as it was securely contained.

"_You_'re not fighting the snakeheads, Professor," the Colonel said dryly. "_We_ are fighting them. You're here to give us the means to that fight."

"But what if we have to face them off-world?" Felger wasn't going to back off. "We might freeze in the most inappropriate moment if we're not prepared."

"Oh, you'll freeze in any case," the Colonel promised. "Long enough for me – or any team leader – to haul your ass back through the Gate before the shooting and name-calling and all the other ugly stuff even starts."

"Still, we have the right to know what we're up against," Felger pressed, driven by God knew what inane wish to play hero. Calvin felt the almost irresistible urge to throttle him. By the looks of it, the Colonel was nurturing similar wishes.

General Hammond and Colonel MacGyver shared sour looks.

"It's your decision, Jack," Hammond said. The Colonel rolled his eyes.

"Oh, for crying out loud…" he leaned towards the microphone. "Teal'c can you come to the briefing room? Seems it's showtime again."

A few minutes later the big, bald, tattooed alien walked into the room, looking mildly exasperated.

"O'Neill," he said as a form of greeting.

Colonel MacGyver – well, actually _O'Neill_ – made a vague gesture towards the gathered scientists.

"The guys want to meet Junior."

A questioning eyebrow was raised slowly. "Are you sure it's wise, O'Neill? Remember, last time…"

"No," the Colonel interrupted crossly. "I'm positive that it's a _very_ bad idea. But they won't leave it be, so would you mind to show off the little snake a bit?"

"As you wish, O'Neill," and with that, the big man began to unbutton his shirt without hurry.

To the horror – and ill-disguised disgust – of them all, the opened shirt revealed an X-shaped slit in the man's belly, directly above his navel. The slit didn't appear to be a wound, though. It looked as if it was either a natural opening, like the pouch of a kangaroo, or one the man's body had been carrying for a _really_ long time.

As they were watching with morbid fascination – Calvin could see Simpson's face from the corner of his eye; it was so chalk-white that her freckles stood off like tiny flames – a small, translucent white worm stuck its head out of the crossed slits, twisting and whining. It had some sort of curved incisors and no eyes at all, unless the tiny black spots were serving as his eyes, which Calvin somehow doubted. Perhaps it was blind.

It certainly didn't seem sentient, but Calvin had understood from the recent debrief that one day it will, and when that day arrives, this helpless, disgusting little thing will become a ruthless and dangerous creature, equipped with the racial memory of its entire race. There was something vaguely unsettling in that thought.

In the next moment his attention was turned away from the worm because Felger fell onto his knees and threw up noisily on the briefing room's floor. Simpson and Kusanagi, too, looked as they might get sick any time, and Calvin felt his stomach turn around as well. The Russians watched the scene stoically, but their faces were suspiciously white.

Colonel O'Neill made an impatient gesture.

"I think they've seen enough, Teal'c, you can put Junior to bed again."

"It seems to be a wise course of action," the big alien agreed, allowing the worm to retreat into the pouch, and closed his shirt again. "I would prefer _not_ to repeat this performance every time some new people get assigned to SGC, but I fear it is inevitable. You Ta'uri are a most peculiar folk."

"Some of us more than the rest," Simpson shot Felger an appalled look, patted Kusanagi on the back, and then looked at Calvin. "You okay?"

"I'll be in a moment, hopefully," Calvin swallowed a few times convulsively to force his rebelling stomach to calm down. "It's just… a lot to take."

The memory of meeting Teal'c in the commissary in that very morning surfaced for a moment. He doubted he'd be able to eat there again for a very long time. There were things that just didn't mix. Like semi-sentient, parasitic worms that lived in the bodies of big, bald aliens… and food. _Any_ food.

Simpson apparently guessed what was going on in his head because she nodded briefly.

"Can you give me a hand with Miko?" she asked. "I think we better get her to the infirmary before she passes out from the shock."

Calvin glanced at the nearly catatonic Japanese woman and grabbed her arm when she started swaying on her feet.

"We'd better hurry," he said, and they practically dragged poor Dr. Kusanagi out of the briefing room and towards the elevator, leaving Felger and his upset stomach to the military to deal with.

Miko's legs gave in after a few steps. Calvin reached under her arms and knees and swept her up. Fortunately, she wasn't a heavy-weight.

"I have her," he said to Simpson. "Go ahead, call the elevator and keep it on this lever."

Simpson nodded and hurried away. Calvin followed her more carefully, the true weight of what he'd gotten himself into coming crashing down upon him like a brick wall.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Ambitions**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part 1.

The supporting characters – with the exception of Kavanagh's family, of course – are all canon ones. Even the school principal; I only chose the school for her. The Cheyenne Mountain Bank and the three schools Kavanagh is considering as good choices are existing institutions.

The science projects, as always, are borrowed from the CalTech website. I don't even pretend to understand what they are.

**PART 06**

The following four days were spent with feverish activity, the main goal of which was to find the right school for his boys. Having narrowed down the search to three choices – based on previous Internet research – he turned to Dr. Fraiser for help with the final selection. She was a fellow single parent, after all… the only one that he knew of.

"I'm thinking of one of these three," he said, showing her the printouts. "They all have both kindergarten and elementary school, and they all offer special education. Tommy needs special therapy for his condition."

Dr. Fraiser studied the printouts for a moment.

"Well, the courses for pro-social skills that Bradmoor Elementary offers could prove very useful for a child with a learning disability," she said. "They are also said to be very good ad teaching language skills."

"Perhaps," Calvin answered, not entirely certainly. "What about Cheyenne Mountain Elementary, though? Liam could go directly to their junior high after the 6th grade. He needs to get really good basics in science subjects."

"I assume you want to send the boys to the same school?" Dr. Fraiser asked.

Calvin nodded. "They'll need each other, after all the unexpected changes in their lives. Also, I want to be able to drop them off to school, whenever it's possible, on my way to work. I want them to get firm roots here. To have a normal childhood… well, as normal as it's possible for them."

"In that case, I suggest you make a compromise," she said. "Cañon Elementary is perhaps not as hard when it comes to science subjects, but it is built on a former wildlife refuge site and has the playgrounds near Cheyenne Creek. The children can see squirrels and birds while playing. It's beautiful. And your boys may need that sort of closeness with nature."

"Maybe," Calvin thought back at his joyless childhood, at the manicured garden of the parish house, where they'd never been allowed to play (having been drafted for gardening instead). _Nature_ hadn't been allowed into that artificial place of greenery, and they hated it, all three of them. He wanted his boys to have a better link to nature than he'd been allowed to have.

"Would they have a chance?" he asked Dr. Fraiser. "Liam is smart, but he's got serious behaviour problems, and Tommy… well, I've shown you his medical files."

The doctor smiled. "I happen to know the principal; we've brought children to her before, even human-looking alien ones. Ms Struble taught my Cassandra for a while; we've been in touch ever since. If you want, I can go with you to the interview tomorrow."

Calvin stared at her in surprise. "You'd do it?"

She shrugged. "Sure, why not? You're my patient by default, and, in a sense, so are your boys. Besides," she added with a charming grin, "we single parents need to stick together."

**xxx**

Calvin spent the evening with exchanging phone calls and e-mails with his family, various spedition firms and his bank. He booked flight tickets for Siobhan, Patrick and the boys to Colorado Springs for two days later, rent the transport truck for their furniture and the geriatric Chevy and got his account transferred to the Cheyenne Mountain Bank. Things seemed to start becoming serious.

He'd got a lift from Colonel O'Neill, of all people, with a promise from Dr. Frasier to fetch him in the next morning and take him to the principal of Cañon Elementary, and after that back to the CMOC. That way he'd be able to learn the shortest and easiest route to his boys' school _and_ to his workplace. Phone and Internet had already been reconnected to the house, so he could organize his new life from his new home. It was a nice feeling.

He went to bed unusually late that night, even by his own standards. There was too much to digest, and he planned to think about it while he was alone and undisturbed in the house.

Not that he wouldn't love his family. He and his siblings had gone through so much already that it had forged them together for the rest of their lives – and he missed his boys. But sometimes it could be a blessing to have a few days just for himself, to reflect on the changes of his life. Their household was always so busy and noisy, the boys demanded his full attention in every spare minute, and he gave it gladly, grateful to have them with him again – but at times it could be simply too much.

He hadn't even realized before how much those recent years took off him. The constant financial struggles, the problems with Liam, Tommy's therapy Patrick's unemployment… It was a miracle he's been able to do his job adequately. He must have, or else the CMOC wouldn't have picked him. But sometimes he wondered what he could have achieved without all those family problems showing him down.

He stomped on that thought ruthlessly. He was _not_ going there. Dysfunctional or not, it was _his_ family, the only people really close to him. The only people he loved. They were his responsibility, and the Reverend had taught him to take his responsibilities _very_ seriously.

At least they wouldn't have financial problems in the near future. A casual look at his contract had made him almost dizzy with relief. Granted, the small remark _hazard payment_ indicated that he might be sent off to dangerous missions, but that was what life insurances were for. His boys would be financially secure, should something happen to him.

He hoped nothing would, though. As hard as it was to accept the mere existence of the Stargate and the idea of interplanetary travel through a wormhole, he also felt a strange excitement he'd thought he'd never feel again. The possibilities for a scientific breakthrough were literally endless. The discoveries he might make in the future beyond his wildest imagination. Despite his worries, he felt _young_ again, young and adventurous, just like when he'd run away from the Reverend's house to start his studies at CalTech, at the age of sixteen.

He wondered which team he'd be assigned to, and whether the soldiers would be difficult to get along with. He _was_ willing to tolerate a certain amount of thick-headedness, as long as they left him alone to do his work undisturbed, but he was _not_ going to allow any stupid jarhead to tell him what he could and what he couldn't do. _He_ was the one with the knowledge, and he wouldn't let anyone order him around. Compromises were good and necessary, but not when they endangered lives.

He slept on the living room's sofa that night, and despite his worries, his sleep was restful, for the first time in years.

**xxx**

According to her promise, Dr. Fraiser brought him to Cañon Elementary in the next morning. Ms Diana Struble, the principal, turned out to be a friendly blonde woman in her late thirties, with collar-length hair and hazel eyes. She greeted Dr. Fraiser in obvious delight and asked lots of questions about Cassandra before turning her attention to the other visitor.

Calvin explained in detail why he wanted to enrol his sons into this particular school and what the respective problems of the two boys were: one too bright for his age but psychically traumatized, and the one, well, a child affected by the Fragile X-syndrome.

Ms Struble nodded in understanding.

"This is a bit unusual, but nothing we couldn't deal with," she assured him. "We have excellent Special Ed teachers here, an experienced child psychologist and two health specialists – it will be all right. Ms Hofman leads extra courses for gifted children, so that your oldest will be properly occupied. Can you give me their personal data now?"

Calvin dutifully recited her the personal data of William Francis, born in 1996, and Thomas Raleigh, born in 1998, both by Bethany Roykirk, and shrugged in mild embarrassment when Ms Struble smiled a bit upon hearing their names.

"My ex-wife was a great admirer of William Raleigh, for some strange reason," he said. "And Francis and Thomas are the middle names of my brother and me."

"I see that you're divorced," Ms Struble said, studying the pre-filled form. "Does your ex-wife still have contact to the children?"

"No," Calvin said coldly. "She has forfeited that right when she kidnapped Liam and ran away with him. My sister and her husband live with us and take care of the boys whenever I'm trapped in the lab."

"Do they have children on their own?" Ms Struble asked.

"No; my sister can't have children," Calvin replied. "But they both love my sons very much, and the boys love them as well. We're a family; maybe an unusual one, but also a close-knit one."

"Irish families usually are," Ms Struble smiled. "Very well, Dr. Kavanagh. Our secretary, Ms Meyers, will need your help to complete the boys' files, but they're welcome to our school whenever they arrive."

**xxx**

Calvin was relived when they left Cañon Elementary again and set off for the Cheyenne Mountain. One more obstacle was removed from the way of his family to build themselves a new home.

While Dr. Fraiser was driving, he called Siobhan again, to tell her that the boys were now safely enrolled to school and promised that he'd get someone to fetch them from the airport, in the unlikely case he wouldn't be able to do so personally. Siobhan didn't sound very reassured by that, but she was a tough woman, able and ready to deal with any upcoming problems. The boys were at school and kindergarten, respectively, so that Calvin couldn't speak with them. It didn't matter. They'd see each other in person, soon.

Barely had he finished, they were turning into the car park of the CMOC already.

"You need to hurry up," Dr. Fraiser said while parking the car. "The debriefing starts in twenty minutes; you'll be assigned to your labs _and_ to your SG field team. It wouldn't be appreciated if you came late. Can you find your way to the briefing room alone?"

Calvin told her that he could – his memory, while not exactly photographic like that of Jonas Quinn, was better than average, after all – and found the briefing room already full. Aside from Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter, Jonas was there, too, and the big alien with the snake in his belly. Calvin got introduced to the two Russian scientists, Oksana Selikhova and Gregori Oktharev, both of whom were specialized in metallurgy and geology, and took the chair kept free for him between doctors Simpson and Kusanagi. Jonas grinned at him across the table a bit wistfully. After all, there was no word about the friendly young alien being assinged to _any_ team, not to mention SG-1.

Said teams were already assembled to get their new members – well, at least the team leaders were very obviously present: all military officers, some of them flanked by one of their underlings. Calvin knew enough about rank insignia to count three colonels – one of them unmistakably a Russian – two majors, a female Russian lieutenant (and a very pretty one at that) and two geeks who, while wearing military fatigues, were clearly civilians. The older one had a long, pale, animated face and a shock of fiery red hair, while the dark-haired one seemed almost impossibly young for such a job, but appearances could be misleading.

At least General Hammond came marching into the room, in the manner of a man who had too much to do and too little time to accomplish all of it.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began without preamble, "I trust you've had ample time to study the basic information provided about our work here?"

There were nods of agreement all over the table. Of course they had. They were scientists, after all. Absorbing basic information was something they did in their sleep.

Which didn't mean that they wouldn't have about a million questions, of course. But that could wait until they were among fellow geeks – people who'd actually _understand_ said questions.

"Good," the general said, obviously pleased. "Now, as you were already told, you'll mostly be working in the various science labs here. But in case your… expertise should be needed off-world, each of you will also be assigned to an SG team. That will be your primary assignment. You still might be sent out with a different team if necessary, but you will be officially listed as a member of your primary team."

That sounded as a practical arrangement – and a flexible one, adaptable to the sometimes frantic, sometimes agonizingly slow process of scientific research. Someone had obviously given these things a great deal of thought.

"So, "the general continued, "since our Russian friends now have their very own SG team, doctors Selikhova and Oktharev will be assigned to SG-4, under the command of Lt. Colonel Sergei Evanov."

That wasn't a surprise for anyone. There couldn't have been any doubt that the two Russians would be put together with their won lot. Especially as nobody else would want to work with a Russian military officer. Their mere presence at the SGC was a compromise, accepted by the US military with gritted teeth.

"As for you, Dr. Simpson," the general turned to her, "you'll be assigned to SG-11. It's an experienced team, whose main task is to find and mine rare minerals that can't be found on Earth but are necessary for our starship program, like _trinium_, but especially _naquadah_. Colonel Edwards," he nodded towards the middle-aged, hard-faced officer, "has a few very skilled technicians on his team who're fully capable of managing day-to-day business. Your presence will be required when they run into some sophisticated technology."

The young, dark-haired major on Edwards' side grinned at Simpson in a welcoming manned.

"I've served with your father, Dr. Simpson," he said. "He was one hell of a training officer; I still have the scars to prove that I've passed his classes."

"Trust me, he hasn't changed a bit since he retried," Simpson answered wryly. "Which is probably the reason that drove me to a scientific career. Far, far from home."

But there was mirth in her eyes, and the soldiers exchanged identical grins; apparently, they already considered her as one of their own. Calvin hoped for her that Simpson had no interest in a private life whatsoever. A base full of protective big brothers could snip _that_ in the bud.

"Dr. Kusanagi," the general continued, "you've been assigned to SG-15, under the command of Major Pierce," that was the same officer Calvin had seen returning through the Gate on his very first day at SGC. "They already have their own scientist, but Dr. Corrigan, " that was the young, dark-haired civilian geek, "is an anthropologist. Major Pierce requested a computer scientist, in case they should find alien equipment to study or demontage. On regular days, you'll work in the lab with Dr. Coombs. I assure you've heard of him."

Dr. Kusanagi nodded in obvious relief. Of course, she'd heard about Dr. Simon Coombs already; the man, a professor of Applied Mathematics at Yale University, was a legend. For his vast knowledge – _and_ for his extraordinary quirks. But at least he was a harmless, fatherly figure, the best possible boss for a nervous perfectionist.

That left Calvin and Felger – and only one team leader, as Calvin didn't really expect any of them being chosen for SG-1, despite Felger's irrational hopes. SG-1 was a scout team; specialized scientists were needed in research teams. Plus, they already had Major Carter for the hard sciences. What they needed now was an anthropologist, with a good grasp on general technological knowledge.

"SG-13 has its own scientist as well," the general said, looking at the red-haired civilian, "and their CO, Colonel Dixon, has a fairly good understanding when it comes to alien technology. However, as they are specialized on looking out for sophisticated tech, Colonel Dixon requested an engineer for his team. Well, Colonel," he looked at the big, balding officer with those water-blue eyes, "it's your choice now."

Dixon looked up both scientists in a measuring manner. He had a grim face, but also laugh lines around his eyes, and Calvin had the impression that he could turn out rather… personable. The colonel dismissed Felger after a mere moment, measuring Calvin again.

"Doc, are you capable of walking fifteen miles in full gear and with a twenty-pound backpack?" he asked.

"Yes," Calvin replied matter-of-factly. The Reverend had sent him to summer camp each year, starting at the age of ten – to teach him proper discipline, he'd said.

Dixon raised a surprised eyebrow. "Can you handle a gun as well?" he asked.

"I can handle standard issue pistols as used in cadet boot camps," Calvin shrugged, "And I was a member of the rifle team at CalTech for two years. So yes, I can take care of myself if I have to. But I'd prefer if someone else did the shooting and I could do my work, which is considerably more important."

"Impressive," Dixon said flatly. "Now, would it be possible to give you a more… sensitive haircut?"

Calvin looked at the soldier icily. "Over my dead and rotting corpse… _sir_!"

To his surprise, a huge, ear-to-ear grin practically split the colonel's face in two.

"I like this one," Dixon declared to the general. "All of them have the brains and the PhDs, but _he_ has spunk as well. I like that in a man I take with me to other planets." He turned back to Calvin and extended his hand. "Welcome to the team, Dr. Kavanagh."

"Thank you," Calvin shook the proffered had a bit warily. To his credit, Colonel Dixon didn't start one of those stupid little arm-wresting games some military types seemed so fond of, not understanding that scientists needed their fingers intact for sensitive work.

"Hey," Felger protested, "what about me?"

"You won't be assigned to any particular team, Dr. Felger," Carter answered in the general's stead. "You're too valuable for the labs. If you're needed off-world, you'll get a temporary assignment."

Felger didn't seem too happy with that arrangement but couldn't do anything about it, so he grudgingly agreed. With that, the briefing was adjourned, and the red-headed scientist of SG-13 offered to show Calvin to his assigned lab.

"You'll have lunch with the team to get familiar with us all," he explained, "but the colonel thought you'd like to meet the folks you're actually going to _work_ with first. Oh, and by the way, I'm Lou Balinsky."

"Calvin Kavanagh," Calvin shook his hand, too. Balinsky gave him an amused look.

"Calvin, huh?" he said. "Your old man really hated your guts, didn't he?"

No, he hadn't. In the stern, sterile perfection that was the Reverend's world, mundane feelings like hate – or _love_, for that matter – had no place. Everything had its pre-determined role on the narrow path that led to an equally stern and sterile heaven. All for the greater glory of the Lord.

"It's tradition," Calvin said with a shrug. "He had it worse, actually. I would hate even more to be called Luther."

Dr. Balinsky laughed in agreement and escorted him to his future workplace to introduce him to his future co-workers. One of them was a scientist from Denmark by the name of Willem Petersen. The man had two PhDs, one in Mechanical Engineering and one in Applied Physics, and Calvin vaguely remembered having read his thesis about the possible use of advanced microfabrication technologies in the constructing of optical, magnetic and micro-fluidic nanostructures.

It was related to his own field, which had probably been the reason for assigning them to the same lab. The third scientist in the lab, a Dr. Chloe Loewin, was a cool, beautiful blonde of Swedish origins in her late twenties, wearing designer glasses and working on her second post-graduate degree in physics. Her primary field was computer sciences.

Balinsky took his leave, after promising that he'd come to fetch Calvin for lunch. As it turned out, Petersen was a CalTech graduate, too, and even though their paths had never crossed before, that was a good foundation for future scientific cooperation. Dr. Loewen left them to their "male bonding", as she called it, and returned to her own work, while Petersen showed the "newbie" around the lab.

**xxx**

Four hours later Calvin had become familiar with the current projects and complex instruments – some of them clearly influenced by alien technology – of the lab. He and Petersen had also discovered another thing they shared: their deep-rooted dislike for a certain Rodney McKay, with whom Petersen, too, had butted heads on several occasions. That had been the point where Dr. Loewen left, declaring that territorial fights of young roosters weren't her thing.

Soon after _that_ scene, Balinsky came back to take Calvin with him to the commissary for lunch. The team was waiting already. SG-13 being a scout team, just like SG-1, it had the obligatory four members of a basic fire team: Colonel Dixon, Balinsky, and two additional soldiers, one of them obviously an experienced veteran, the other one blond and very young, at least by the looks of him. It was this young guy, however, who wore a shiny new wedding band. Plus, according to his rank insignia, he was a Senior Airman, which was about as far as enlisted personnel could get, so he couldn't be a complete beginner.

It was the colonel who spotted the new arrivals first.

"It's about time," he scowled at Balinsky. "In case you've forgotten, we've got an early mission tomorrow." Then he turned to Calvin. "Have a seat, doc, and let me introduce you to the team. This," he nodded towards the veteran, "is Technical Sergeant Chris Bosworth, our regular smartass. Balinsky you already know. And the young one is Senior Airman Simon Wells. Team, this is Dr. Kavanagh."

"Does he have a first name, too?" Bosworth asked.

"He does," Calvin replied dryly, "but he doesn't see how it would be your business."

"You seem to think you'd be something better than the rest of us," Bosworth sneered; whether it was true anger or he was just teasing the newbie, it was hard to tell.

"He _is_ something better," Colonel Dixon said calmly, "or lese they would never have selected him for this project. And he has a PhD to prove it."

"Two, actually," Calvin corrected; he'd never believed in false modesty, "and I'm working towards the third one."

Balinsky whistled. "Two already, at your age? Impressive. What, exactly, is your field?"

"Well, I started off with micro-electro-mechanic systems," Calvin replied, "but switched to fluid mechanics and transport processes in the recent years. It's a new research branch that looks very promising."

Balinsky nodded. "I see now why you've got paired up with Dr. Petersen. You'll have the time of your life working with liquid _naquadah_."

Colonel Dixon raised a hand. "You can talk shop with the man later, Balinsky. It's not nice to make us feel left out."

"Oh, I wouldn't be worried about any of you," Balinsky grinned. "I've been working with you guys for too long to buy that 'we're just dumb soldiers' routine."

"Hmmm," the colonel put a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth, "I see I'll have to work on my intimidation technique if civilians are getting this cheeky with me," he swallowed and made a disgusted face. "The food is inedible. Again. Do they allow the Russians to go on kitchen duty nowadays?"

"Unlikely," Bosworth was shovelling the unidentifiable mass into his mouth stoically. "We'd be getting cabbage every day then. Could I get court-martialled if I shot the cook?"

"Yes," the colonel told him," and I'm not in the mood to break in another Tech Sergeant, so try to restrain yourself."

Bosworth looked at their newbie full of suspicion. "Hey, doc, it doesn't seem to bother you. How come?"

Calvin shrugged. "I've been eating in the canteen of the university for the last seven years. It makes you immune against horrible food."

Airman Wells rolled his eyes. "I knew I should have gone to college. But no, I had to listen to my old man and go to the Air Force."

"Which is just the right place for you," Dixon said, "so shut up and eat up. Once you've married your Marci, she can make homemade food for you every day."

Wells gave him a long-suffering look. "That's exactly what keeps me from setting the date for the wedding, sir. I _have_ tried her cooking."

They all laughed, and then the colonel looked up from his plate, directly at Calvin.

"So, doc, when is your family arriving?" at the scientist's baffled look, he shrugged. "I've had four hours to make myself familiar with your file."

"Day after tomorrow," Calvin replied. "I hope I can get out of the lab to pick them up."

"I'll see into it," Dixon said. "We'll be going to PX4… whatever tomorrow, but it's just a standard recon mission, so we should be back at the end of the day. We'll get you a decent car and help with unpacking your things when they arrive."

"That's really not necessary," Calvin began, but Dixon silenced him with an impatient wave of his large hand.

"You don't seem to understand, doc," he said. "You're part of the team now, and we take care of our own."

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Ambitions**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part 1.

As we were never told Smithy's rank, nor did we get to see him (as far as I can remember), I decided to christen him Josiah, make him a PFC (Private First Class), and to cast him as Eric Bruskotter. Well, what Eric Bruskotter looked like in "Tour of Duty", anyway.

Since Sergeant Bates still doesn't have a given name in canon, I've adopted one of the popular fanon names for him.

Colonel Dixon's four children are canon – their ages and names as well as the details about his wife are my additions.

**xxx**

**PART 07**

Some six days after the new geeks had been introduced to their new workplaces – and after an eighty-minute-long, boring drive all across Colorado Springs – Gunnery Sergeant Eugene Bates finally arrived at the local storage area of _Bailey's Moving & Storage_. He wasn't particularly pleased to have to cross the entire town by _truck_, just to ferry the belongings of some _civilian_ geek home, but Colonel O'Neill ordered him to go, and in the eyes of Gunnery Sergeant Bates Colonel O'Neill was seconded only by God. Most of the time anyway.

Not that he wouldn't respect his immediate superior; he did. And Colonel Sumner, a good, decent, no-nonsense officer, deserved every respect on Earth. Or on any other planet, for that matter. But Colonel O'Neill, despite his sometimes infuriating flyboy attitude (the man _was_ Air Force, after all, and it showed) had something special that no other officer Bates had ever served with could claim to have. He didn't even know _what_ it was, exactly. Colonel O'Neill was just… special.

And since Colonel O'Neill told him to go and fetch the stuff of the new scientist of SG-13 (as the team was trapped off-world due to a Gate malfunction on some godforsaken planet and couldn't lend a hand to their own geek), Sergeant Bates obeyed without as much as a word of protest. He only hoped that Dr. Kavanagh wouldn't turn out someone akin to doctors Felger and Coombs in the long run. Because if he proved half as bad as those two, Bates couldn't guarantee that he wouldn't throttle the man before the eyes of his family. Even the endurance of a Marine had its limits – limits that the geeks just _loved_ to test.

It wasn't that he didn't understand that the geeks were needed. Of all people, the soldiers assigned to the SGC understood it all too well. Especially those like Bates, who regularly went on off-world missions. And some of the geeks, like that red-headed guy on Colonel Dixon's team, were fairly okay for civilians.

A great many of them, however, were infuriating, talkative, arrogant, self-absorbed or downright rude. Sometimes Bates had to forcefully remind himself that he was there to _protect_ the geeks, not to shoot them at first sight. He knew quite a few of his fellow soldiers felt the same way.

That was why he took Smithy with him to his particular task. Well, PFC Josiah Smith, to be more accurate, but – like everyone else – he'd long ceased to call the young man by his real name. Smithy was as large as a walk-in-closet, had the guileless face and the baby blue eyes of a ten-year-old and was as strong and peaceful as an ox. He also shared his sergeant's absolute loyalty towards their superior officers. Granted, he wasn't the sharpest tool in the toolkit, but he knew and order when he heard one, and he never hesitated for a second to follow it. Besides, he was a crack shot, the best in the entire platoon. Bates liked him a lot. He was a good kid – and remarkably immune against annoying geekiness.

The truck turned into the huge courtyard of _Bailey's Moving & Storage_, which was framed by long rows of identical warehouses. The doors of the fourth one on the left stood open, and neatly packed boxes could be seen in the inside, together with a few well-wrapped pieces of furniture, ready to be moved. Bates nodded in appreciation. At least preparations had been made.

He jumped out of the truck and looked around for his passengers, trying to find his man. There were several people standing around at the warehouse, but he was sure he can find the right one. He'd already met Dr. Kavanagh twice – besides, a tall, lanky guy with glasses and a ponytail would be hard to miss.

The first man Bates spotted definitely _wasn't_ him: a broadly-built, ruddy-faced guy in his mid-thirties, clearly someone used to hard physical labour. A simple and pleasant soul, the polar opposite of a geek. Bates wondered in what way he could be related to the short-clipped, dismissive Dr. Kavanagh. The tall, good-looking young man was more promising; there was definitely some family resemblance – a cousin or a younger brother?

In the next moment, Bates finally spotted the scientist coming out of the warehouse. Yep, definitely closely related – but there was something in the man's not entirely unpleasant face that made him uncomfortable. A wary readiness to strike before his opponent could make his move. Bates had seen Marines like that; they always shot first and asked questions later, getting themselves – and their comrades – in deep shit.

Fortunately, he wouldn't be the one dealing with the man. That would be Colonel Dixon's job, and good luck with it. All Bates had to do was to heave the guy's belongings onto the truck and get him and his things to his new home.

He cleared his throat. "Dr. Kavanagh?"

The scientist whirled around like a snake ready to strike, but recognized him at second sight. "Sergeant… Bates, right?"

Bates nodded, a bit surprised that the man would remember his name. Geeks usually tended _not_ to see beyond his uniform. "Colonel O'Neill sent us to get your stuff home, sir. Colonel Dixon and the others are… delayed."

"I see," apparently, the scientist had already learned what _that_ meant at the SGC. "Well, it's very generous of Colonel O'Neill… although he seems to have over-estimated our wealth. What we have will barely fill half of that truck."

"It doesn't matter, sir," Bates replied patiently. "At least we'll be travelling light. Smithy," he barked in the general direction of the driver's cabin. "Come and give the man a hand!"

"That won't be necessary, Sergeant," Dr. Kavanagh said. "There are three of us, we'll manage."

"By all due respect, sir," Bates said through clenched teeth, "it's not our way to stand around idly and watch other people work."

The scientist shrugged. "Be my guest, then. Just leave the kid's beds last, so that they can lie down when they get tired."

"Are you kidding?" Bates stared at the man incredulously. "The trip is barely and hour and a half long."

"And we've been here all day, ever since we got word that our things had arrived," Dr. Kavanagh pressed his lips together for a moment. "Trust me that I know what I'm doing. They _do_ tire easily." He stepped back through the open door of the warehouse and called out to some invisible persons inside. "Siobhan! Boys! Come, it's time! The truck's here!"

A thin, tired-looking woman came out with two small children, both of whom had blue eyes and dark blond, curly hair. Bates felt sorry for the woman; she'd apparently gone through a lot in her life, and those experiences had left their traces in her narrow face.

"Mrs Kavanagh," he said politely. That earned him a tired smile from the woman.

"O'Malloy, actually," she corrected.

"She's my sister," Dr. Kavanagh explained, and then, nodding towards the ruddy-faced man, he added. "Her husband, Patrick."

"I see," Bates looked from the boys to the man, and then back at the boys again. "Your nephews?"

"No," Dr. Kavanagh replied curtly, "my sons. Can we get moving? The day's not getting any younger."

Bates bit back the first answer that came to his mind; it wouldn't have been a friendly one. He called for Smithy again, and they began to load the truck. To his credit, Dr. Kavanagh didn't hold back when it came to lift the heavy boxes (most likely filled with books), and he was apparently a lot stronger than he looked. The other two men and the woman did their part a well-oiled unit, clearly used to work together as a team. Even the more fragile-looking boy helped, while the younger but sturdier one was crawling under their feet on all fours, all the time.

Smithy took an immediate liking to the toddler and squatted down to him.

"Hey, little man," he said, you having fun?"

The boy blinked at him with wide blue eyes behind round glasses but didn't answer.

"C'mon," Smithy cajoled, "tell me your name, will ya? Mine's Smithy; that's how everyone calls me, anyway."

"He won't answer you," Dr. Kavanagh said evenly. There were no emotions whatsoever in his flat voice, but Bates could feel the forcibly suppressed pain behind the seemingly calm words, and he asked himself if there was something seriously wrong with the boy.

Smithy, simple soul as he was, didn't understand, of course.

"Why won't he talk to me?" he asked naïvely. He usually got along splendidly with small children.

"Smithy," Bates interrupted, "leave it!"

"But Gunny," Smithy protested, "I just…"

"I gave you an order, Marine," Bates barked. "Do I need to repeat it?"

Smithy jumped to his feet and snapped to attention at once.

"No, sir," he said crisply, and turning on his heels, he ran to help putting the last of the boxes onto the truck.

Dr. Kavanagh picked up his son and lifted the boy onto his shoulders.

"Thank you, Sergeant," he said simply.

Bates nodded and went to work again. He had the feeling that asking _what_ exactly was wrong with the boy wouldn't be a good idea. Or where the boys' mother might be.

At last the truck was packed, the load secured, the older boy firmly perched in the driver's cabin – the instrumental board seemed to fascinate him – but the young man, the one Bates still hadn't been introduced to, didn't make any attempts to climb onto the truck.

"You're not coming with us?" Bates asked.

The young man shook his head. "Nah, I was just visiting. I'll catch a taxi and go straight to the airport. My plane takes off within three hours." He and Dr. Kavanagh embraced. "Take care of yourself and the kids. I'll be with you guys again, sooner than you'd think."

"I certainly hope so," Dr. Kavanagh replied. "It'll be… strange not having you with us all the time. Even if it's only temporary."

"Or so we hope," the young man sighed. He hugged his sister and her husband, too, and kissed both boys on the top of the cheek, while the older one still didn't make any attempts to leave the driver's cabin. "Now, be gone before I get all sentimental on you."

"That would be embarrassing," Dr. Kavanagh agreed. "Take care, Dion, and call us as soon as you're home again."

The young man promised that he would, and so the family finally boarded the truck, making themselves as comfortable among the boxes and furniture as possible. Dr. Kavanagh lifted his younger son and handed him to his sister, then he looked around for his firstborn.

"Liam," he said," come back to us, we're leaving."

The fragile boy looked at the instrumental board longingly. "Can't I sit here and watch, Papa?" he asked.

"That's up to Sergeant Bates," his father replied. "Ask him nicely."

The boy turned pleading blue eyes to Bates. "Can I stay here, Sergeant, please? I'll be good, I promise. I won't even touch anything, honestly!"

"You can stay for a while," Bates was an expert at negotiating with kids; his little brother hadn't been an easy one to talk into anything, either, "but not all the way. When I tell you to go back to your Dad, you _will_ go back. Understood?"

The boy nodded solemnly, in a way that was too serious for a kid of his age. He was a precocious child, this one, and probably a very bright one, too. Likely to end up in a lab while barely out of junior high, just like his father.

The Kavanagh family – minus the young man whose name was obviously Dion… what sort of name _was_ that anyway? – was finally on the truck. Bates secured the back latch and climbed into the driver's cabin to Smithy. The boy named Liam was practically glued to the narrow seat between them, his eyes never leaving the blinking instruments in front of him. It was obvious that he'd never been inside of a truck before.

"Let's go, Smithy," Bates ordered. The sooner they got the geek family home, the sooner could they return to the base, to the poker game with their comrades and a few bottles of good, honest beer.

**xxx**

When they reached the house, the legendary team spirit of close-knit military units – that was apparently extended to family members as well – had already been at work for quite some time. Mrs Dixon, the colonel's small-boned, birdlike little Jewish wife had come over in the morning with her four children, to help the Kavanagh clan move around the furniture inherited from the earlier occupants and make place for their own stuff. She had been about to prepare lunch for the whole pack when Calvin and his family had left for _Bailey's Moving & Storage_ by taxi (as the Chevy was still on its way from Pasadena), and based on the interesting aromas wafting out from the kitchen, she had succeeded in the meantime.

Glenda Dixon would barely reach to the shoulder of her husband, had dark, almond-shaped eyes, a fine scimitar of a nose and long, auburn tresses that she wore in a loose knot, low on the nape of her neck. She was soft-spoken, with a high-pitched, child-like voice, and Calvin had been surprised to learn that she not only was a mother of four but also had a master's degree in education.

It was hard to believe, but she had her bunch of noisy, curious kids well in her small hand, from 13-year-old Noah, who was in the worst phase of puberty, to their 5-year-old, golden little princess by the name of Una Leonie – the only girl in the pack. Which must have been the reason why the baby girl got her name.

The other boys, Andy and Nick, were ten and seven, respectively, and – unlike their moody eldest brother – found nothing wrong with helping complete strangers to unpack boxes and carry books. As they weren't given anything breakable, they could be left to their fun, while the adults handled more sensitive items. In the end, even Noah let himself be talked into helping, albeit grudgingly, and for a while the house looked – and, more importantly, _sounded_ – like the Central Station in New York.

As they had ten pairs of hands, after a couple of hours everything was put away at least to temporary places – achieving a more permanent order would still take days – and while the kids roamed the garden, the adults gathered in the living room for a well-deserved drink. Or for a coffee, in Smithy's case, who still had to drive back to the CMOC. Beer bottles and coffee cups were reached around, and instead of the usual bags of chips, Mrs. Dixon presented a large tray of home-made meat pastries, to everyone's great satisfaction.

They talked amiably for a while. Even Sergeant Bates relaxed enough to seem almost civil, and – inspired by the army of children playing alien invasion in the garden – he actually shared a few childhood stories about his kid brother. As it turned out, he was from Los Angeles, which was the closest thing to Pasadena, so they could discuss places they all knew.

Well, with the exception of Mrs. Dixon, who was very subdued and more than a little worried, despite the brave face she'd put on. Calvin felt a pang of guilt. It was somehow unfair that she wasn't allowed to know what both Bates and Calvin himself knew: why her husband hadn't come back in time, where he was and what he was doing there. But it couldn't be helped. That was Top Secret missions for you. In no time, perhaps Siobhan would be the one sitting in the living room, stealing secret glances at the mute phone, asking anxiously when her brother might return from a mysterious mission – if ever.

Calvin felt the familiar wave of panic, now a regular occurrence, ever since he'd first set foot in the SGC, rise again. What had he gotten himself into? Would there ever be a way out for him?

There wouldn't, and he knew that. He'd even accepted the fact, days ago. If nothing else, his boys would be well taken care of. Most of the time, he could make himself believe that a sudden and violent death wasn't something he really needed to fear. He'd be working in the lab, most of the time, after all.

Which still left the lesser part of his time that might be spent on alien planets, trying to make alien equipment work, while huge, tattooed guys with snakes in their bellies were shooting at him with staff weapons. That was the part he didn't _always_ manage to ignore. He was not a coward – but he preferred deathly peril to be, well, more… fathomable. Like pollution. Murderous junkies in a dark street. Or even world-wide atomic war, if mankind, which was, sadly, all too imaginable, couldn't get over its mistrust and homicidal tendencies.

Those things he could understand. They were ugly and hateful, but they were _real_. Well, so were the Stargate and the snake in Teal'c belly, but _those_ things sounded too much like bad science fiction nonetheless. His life had become a space opera.

Before he could have worked himself up to real panic, Bates' cell phone rang. It had the simplest, default ring tone, matching the straightforward nature of its owner, and yet the room became eerily silent at once.

Bates, completely unfazed as always, answered the phone, listened for a moment, then hung up. The shadow of a smile spread all over his face.

"That was the operations officer on duty," he said. "Colonel Dixon and his team are back, safe and sound. Mission debrief in twenty minutes; they're gonna leave for home in about an hour."

Mrs Dixon closed her eyes for a brief moment, and for that moment, she actually looked her age. Then she put on her brave mask again, and Calvin couldn't help but admire her. Her and all the other soldiers' wives who managed to wait for their men unwaveringly, expecting the cruel fact that they'd never be told the truth beyond those missions.

"Well," she said brightly, rising from the armchair, "I better gather the kids, then, Dave would want to see us when he gets home."

**xxx**

Within twenty minutes, they were all gone, Bates and Smithy driving back to CMOC, the Dixon family heading home. Siobhan went to do the dishwashing, while Calvin collected the boys, blackmailed them into a quick bath and then tuck them in. He was barely half through the obligatory bedtime story when Liam and Tommy fell asleep, clutching to each other tightly, as it had been ever since Calvin had managed to get Liam back from his ex.

He left the children's room quietly, walking out into the garden, looking up to the stars. He knew that some of them – the closest ones – still existed, many of them burning more brightly than Earth's sun. Some of them even had planets. Planets that he might be visiting in the future.

It was an absurd thought. A frightening thought. But in some hidden corner of his heart, that adventurous spirit he had thought long dead, was already rearing its head again.

Perhaps accepting the offer hadn't been such a bad idea, after all.

- The End -

**xxx**

**End note:** Kavanagh's story will be continued in "Adventures" that will show him on actual off-world missions with SG-13.


End file.
